All In Issue 3 2024

Editorials

Cosmologist, Carl Sagan popularised scientific knowledge through his books and TV broadcasts, and spoke of ‘writing’ as ‘perhaps the greatest of human inventions, binding together people, citizens of distant epochs, who never knew one another. Books break the shackles of time…’ Prison writings from authors indeed break the shackles of time and while time erased the physical evidence of where their books were written the content remains. For example, the Psalms of David, Boethius’ On the Consolation of philosophy, Paul of Tarsus’s Letters to the Romans, Socrates’ trial, imprisonment and execution was ‘written up’ by Plato his friend and prison-visitor; this text is a foundation document of moral, metaphysical and humanitarian content. Prisoners who became notable authors in the world of literature had to secretly send out, smuggle out, or eventually retrieve upon their release what they had written in prison.There are many poets and writers who spent time in prison including François Villon, Miguel de Cervantes, PaulVerlaine, and Oscar Wilde.

Does this introduction seem grandiose with elements of hyperbole? Well not so, since it frames what fascinates me about writers in prison. Moreover, my commitment to prison literature, to writing in all forms, to archiving stories, voices and experiences reminds me of T.S. Elliot’s lines in The Waste Land:

‘I have heard the key Turn in the door once and turn once only We think of the key, each in his prison Thinking of the key, each confirms a prison’

Let me now exhale and offer insight into our processes in putting together this third, remarkable edition of All In Magazine. Firstly, I must tell you about Iñigo Garrido and his contribution to the new look and graphic design supported by a project called ‘Four Nations’. Iñigo travelled from HMP Shotts to Magilligan to outline the skill base which duly informed the Creative Media

prisoners group about graphic design software; this effected the magazine layout which could be prisoner-led and further made us consider the house style aspects which gives the magazine its professional look.

The number of submissions from this year’s call-out doubled in comparison to the previous two years.This made the selection not only more difficult coupled with it being enjoyable and interesting.Themes emerged, motifs and similarities within the content.Victimhood, reading, gambling, addiction, and all such ‘challenged’ the Editorial Team to consider how submissions were eventually categorised.There were issues that involved fact checking articles: something we have to address in future editions.There are exigencies for prisoners regarding this simply in that there is limited access to resources.We felt some pieces that use ‘the I narrator’ could have been presented as monologues.Within the monologue-genre in fiction a writer has the freedom to invent or imagine circumstances, scenarios and situations that need little support from historical event, fact, and actuality. In highlighting this we are pledging to keep the voice of the writer present through all stages of writing: from new emerging voices to the more accomplished writers who demonstrate developed levels of creativity within the artform.We selected a lead article ‘The Prisoner and the Mirror’ as stand-out piece that is compelling and clearly articulated; this resonated with the Editorial Team before we met to discuss the submissions. We have two other feature-pieces: a dynamic and engaging drama ‘Endgame’ (play) and ‘Jimmy Friday’ where the final line locates many of themes accurately and proves that in any piece of writing: the right words in the right place are the mark of impact and hallmark of style.

I wish to conclude by saying ‘collaboration is innovation’; and while we often create within isolation, we bring elements together to close off production and what is here achieves amazing results in our accomplished, new look All In which is a model for teamwork.

Pamela Brown, Writer-in-Residence Magilligan Prison, Prison Arts Foundation

This issue of All In magazine, provides insights on activity in the world of prison arts on the island of Ireland during 2024. In the South,The IPS biennial exhibition, made a post-Covid comeback at Rua Red in Tallaght in March, and with artist and former prisoner Eddie Cahill selecting the work, the exhibition was shaped by a curator with a genuine understanding of the artists.

The idea, that the journey is as important as the destination, was true of the curator’s visits to prisons, as the artists enjoyed talking to Eddie when they showed him their work.Also in March, an exhibition of Eddie’s paintings at Limerick City Gallery of Art, attracted a big audience when the veteran broadcaster John Bowman covered it on RTE Radio. People travelled to see the exhibition, and described his paintings as “life affirming”, despite dealing with the trauma associated with crime. Mountjoy art teacher Eleanor Jones, described Eddie as “thoughtful,” and this trait was reflected in the titles he chose; Searching in the Dark, for his exhibition at LCGA, and Alternative Ways of Seeing, for the group exhibition at Rua Red.

The annual PAF exhibition in Belfast, until recently seen for only a few hours, on one evening at Crumlin Road Gaol each year, was instead at 2 Royal Avenue for a month. This year, titled Reflections, the exhibition has become established at this unique venue, that promotes inclusion by facilitating artistic expression.

Over the summer, ceramic sculptures and fabric art, evocative of the colours and creatures of the sea, made in the Education Unit at Cork Prison were on exhibition in the Heritage Centre on Spike Island in Cork Harbour.

In September, an exhibition of work from all the prisons, making the case for more art and creativity, and appropriately titled Just Do It, proved popular at the Dept. of Justice in Dublin on Culture Night.

Giving Something Back, a touring exhibition for schools, focusing on images of nature in the art work of prisoners, was at Thomond Community College in Limerick and Oberstown Childrens Detention Centre in November.A richly coloured and detailed illustration (Untitled P16), inspired by the double helix of DNA, by an artist in HMP Magilligan, is a key piece in the exhibition, reflecting - in an imaginative and creative way - the individuality of each person and the diversity of all forms of life. Giving Something Back, was an experimental project, exploring settings where exhibitions of the art work of prisoners, might be best appreciated and of greatest value.

This year, art and crafts by prisoners were exhibited in Community, Heritage, and Arts Centres, in a University, a Municipal Gallery, a Government Department, a Community College and a Detention Centre for Children. People of all ages were inspired by the work and, despite being cut off from society, prisoners were seen to have made a significant contribution to culture, education and cross border co-operation at the heart of society. Enjoy the magazine.

Tom Shortt, Arts Officer, Irish Prison Education Service

Acknowledgments

Sincere thanks are offered to all who played a part in the creation of this magazine and who gave most generously of their time and insights in shaping the content.The creation of this collaborative work would not have been possible without the tireless support of Prison Arts Foundation,The Irish Prison Service and the Northern Ireland Prison Service. All In magazine gives special thanks to the project innovators and Editorial Board: Tom Shortt, Pamela Brown, Shauna Gilligan, Geoff Power,Adele Campbell, Fred Caulfield, Simon McDermott. Thanks Fiona Dooley at IPS HQ. IPS Arbour Hill. Sincere appreciation is extended to the many teachers and prison educators who supported their students during the submissions process.Thanks to graphic designer Iñigo Garrido Rey, New Media Lecturer, HMP Shotts, for Graphic Design upskilling as part of the Four Nations International Fund and residency programme, the Creative Media Group at Magilligan and JPW project lead for layout and design.

The Prisoner and The Mirror

For Ann Marie

With almost twelve months of an eighteen-month sentence complete, looking in the mirror is becoming less difficult.And for a person in recovery from addiction, looking at myself was something I avoided daily.

I’m going to say something now I never thought I’d ever say.‘Coming to prison has become a positive thing for me’. And the number of fellow prisoners who’ve said similar is a lot. My addiction councillor Ann Marie says she hears this all the time from people like myself who are in a positive place, considering I’m in prison.

I’m honestly able to say I’m a better person now than I was a year ago, even though I’ve spent that time in prison.Who’d have thought?

I’m strong, I’m determined and most importantly, I’m honest, honest to myself, and honest to my loved ones, the real victims of my imprisonment.

Prison have many challenges, always asking/ wondering when will this happen? When will I get the call? Why this? Why that? Then six

weeks into my sentence, I get sent to Portloaise, Ireland’s only maximum-security prison. Now take note, I’m a first-time prisoner, in prison for money laundering, no violence, no probation, not as much as a P19 have I gotten since I was sentenced. So why was I sent to the country’s only maximumsecurity facility? And unlike the prison in Dublin, I’m told I’ll have to share a cell. Now, as both a non-smoker and indeed a light sleeper, this is my worst nightmare, and one of the

Prison has many challenges, always asking/wondering when will this happen? When will I get the call? Why this? Why that?

first things that came to mind when I got sentenced. And of course, my cellmate smokes, of course he does. I’m guessing 95% of inmates smoke. Now how Irish is this, you can’t smoke in a bar that could be of any size, but in a prison cell three by six meters in size, smoke away, no problem. I mean what the… But in Portloaise there was a blessing waiting for me, in the school, or as it’s known ‘the education centre’. Now me and school never got along. I spent the first three years of secondary school looking out the window, and

as a result ended up doing the Group cert, not the Inter cert but the Group cert.That’s the exam the not so bright students ended up doing after three years. But in Portloaise, not some or most, but every one of those teachers was either a lady or a gent.They took me under their wing and away I went, completing five courses in two months before my transfer back to Dublin. So school in prison has proved something of a blessing. I continue to attend school daily.

Yes, there are many positives about schooling, but my recovery is what my whole future depends on and I must remember this every day. N.A. and Ann Marie are the foundations on which I move forward positively to this day. Let’s not dress it up, I ended up in trouble and in prison because of my addiction, nothing else. And I’m to blame nobody else.

There will be many people who will relate to this. See addiction doesn’t affect you, it affects everyone and everything. Remember every coin has two sides and both end up stained.

Luckily, I’ve a great partner, without whom, I’m not sure I’d be the better person I mentioned earlier. Maybe being clean and having that strong family behind me is why now I’m not so afraid of the mirror.

Anon, Loughan House Open Prison

Featured Work

See our featured Drama piece on the middle pages!

Jimmy

Friday

Once, I missed out on £140,000 by a short nose. I walked into the betting office, the bookies. I looked at the paper for the horses and I picked out six horses. Five of them won. I was waiting for the last fella to win for £140,000. My heart was going off a hundred miles an hour and the race went off. I bet 50 pence a bet which came to £31.50.There was about seven or eight people in the bookies at the time. It was a small bookies.And the name of the bookies was Cashman.Those bookies are well gone now, Paddy Power bought them out.The worker in Cashman’s had everyone told that I was close to it, so close to winning the big lump sum.They were all watching my race.They were waiting for me to win.They wanted me to win.The horse took the lead. Beef or Salmon he was called and he was in the lead by three or four lengths. Coming to the last hundred yards, a horse called Cue Card came out of the pack and beat Beef or Salmon by a short nose. I left the bookies that day with £12,500. I was so disappointed that I went to the bookies every day for the last fourteen years trying to win that £140,000 back.

Anon, Portlaoise Prison

1. GRID, Acrylics, Anon, Progression Unit, Mountjoy Prison

2. ESPERANZA, Chalk/Pastel on Paper, Anon, Hydebank Wood College & Women’s Prison

A Picnic

This was the third and last time I was going to climb the damn hill. It had been lovely lying in the warm sun, my head pillowed on the spongy grass, absorbing the view of various shades on the surrounding hills: the greens, pale and richly dark, the burnt yellow of the furze, and a spread of rich purple heather.We had parked on the lower road and climbed to this point. I struggled with the picnic bags while she swanned ahead carrying her handbag and a blanket.

When she had spread the blanket and settled herself down, she looked up and said:‘I forgot my sunglasses, could you nip down and get them?’ I nipped, if you could call sliding and slipping nipping, narrowly avoiding a large boulder hidden by green moss.

I collected the glasses and started back up the hill. Unencumbered by the picnic bags, the going was not too bad although I could feel my shirt sticking to my back.

We ate the sandwiches: ham, with the crusts cut off. I had smuggled a small tube of mustard to smear on mine. She couldn’t ‘stand the smell of mustard’.We drank tea and had a slice of her special walnut cake; the nuts got in between my teeth. I ate a slice, picking out the nuts. She had two slices. I lay back and absorbed the sun.

‘I forgot to bring up the newspaper.’ I pretended not to hear.

Again:‘I must have left it in the car.’ Silence. ‘Would you nip down and get it?’

This nipping was wearing me out.Again down the hill, slipping and sliding. I got the paper, the Sun, and slowly climbed back up . The damn hill was getting steeper.

I dozed for a while; the only sounds were a whistling bird and the gurgling of a distant stream. She sat up and took off her blue

It would be easy to lose your footing and tumble down until you hit either the road or the large mossy rock. A person could be killed.

cardigan. She searched in her bag. It was one of those bags that you would need a torch to see into. She shook her head.‘I can’t find the sun cream.’

No reply.

‘I really need it.’

‘The sun is not that hot.’ ‘You know how easily I burn.’

That was in Orlando and the temperature had been thirty-five degrees.

‘Would you...?’

Flash Fiction

The Editorial Team were impressed by the sense of place, atmosphere, and time captured in the stories contained in these selected pieces. The reader gets a formidable sense of fully formed characters in such a short word count, for example, in “A Picnic” we can imagine these characters interacting in other situations!

‘I’ll nip down and get it.’

The sun cream had oozed out of its tube and was smeared across the back seat where she had thrown it. I took pride in my car; it was the love of my life and this was the last straw. I cleaned up as well as possible and started on the climb back for the final time. It would be easy to lose your footing and tumble down until you hit either the road or the large mossy rock. A person could be killed.

I could see the damp patches under the arms of my blue shirt spreading across my chest. It would be easy to fall, particularly if you had a bag in your hand. One slip and you couldn’t stop.A terrible accident. I handed her the cream and lay down again. It would be difficult to keep your balance.A slight push.Yes, a tragic occurrence. I closed my eyes.‘Suddenly, after an accident, beloved wife of…’ Time passed. She stood up.

‘It’s time to go.’ She looked down at me. ‘What are you waiting for?’ ‘Day dreaming.’ She turned.‘The hill is steep.You’ll have to help me down.’

I stood up and gave her a hand down the hill.

Anon, Midlands Prison

The Creek

Billy dreamt about the future.Will worried about the present.William longed for the past.The only constant was Sweetwater Creek.

William walked slowly towards the water’s edge. Scared, his hand holding on firmly to his walking stick.Taking a seat on the rocks by the water’s edge, he looked over the liquid surface turning gold in the setting sun’s light. Perhaps this was the last time he’d see its beauty, this place which held so many memories.The good, the bad. William held his hands over his face and wept.

A rock landed with a thunderous crash sending ripples through the water. Will stood on the rocks with a face flushed red, full of anger.Then came the shouting, cursing, and screams. Each rock thrown shattering the tranquillity as the barrage continued. Falling to his knees,Will punched the ground, leaving deep cuts on his hands.

The crying, the screaming, none of it registered with Billy. High above the water in a tree he played happily on the swing that he’d made at the start of summer.

Blissfully unaware of the sadness and anger, he laughed and smiled in childish glee. These were his happy days; may they last forever.

Anon, Midlands Prison

Snow House

(Opening paragraphs)

In a little log cabin away out in the outback of a mid-western state lived a family.This was the 1800s and times were hard, and money was scarce. It was the time as the Kerryman said, ‘when the whiskey was cheaper than paraffin oil’.The little log cabin was small, built completely from wood from the trees of which there was plenty of in this remote place.

Jack and his wife Nellie and their 10 children lived in the little house. It was like the little house on the prairie, only more crowded.The barn stood nearby with the two donkeys Billy and Neddy. Jack and Nellie and their 10 children were poor, but they were happy because they didn’t know any different. It was coming up to Christmas time and all the children were looking forward to the arrival of Santa Claus but how they expected him to find them in this bleak outback I don’t know. Even Rudolph with his shiny red nose would find it hard to find his way in the blizzard which had blown in that afternoon from the North Pole.

It was Christmas Eve and all over the house there was a silence not even a mouse could be heard.This was unusual in such a busy house, but all the children had gone to bed because there was nothing else to do.The snow fell silently all over the countryside all afternoon. It covered the log cabin which was eerily white against the darkening sky....

Anon,Arbour Hill Prison

The Good Fight

Morning call home to say “hello.” Under different roofs, but still ready to go…work, education, whatever the plan, survival techniques are hopefully in hand.Where once my necklace, with a family frame, now hangs a lanyard with my number and name. Is this who I am? Is this where I’ll stay? Or get up, encourage, face another day.We all have our woes and stories to tell, caution recommended, please leave nothing to sell. Your ally today, your enemy tomorrow, put yourself first, protect your journey from sorrow. Officers, NIACRO, 360 and friends, governors, chaplains on them we depend. Library, ceramics and gym class each day, garden walks with dogs, not a bad place I’d say. Determination is my drive to never give in, to the loneliness that can leave my head in a spin.Then a quick call home to say “love you, goodnight,” give me the courage I need to keep up the good fight.

Anon, Hydebank Wood College & Women’s Prison

I Am

Today was the day.The world would finally see who she was.After sixteen years she could almost feel freedom.The walls of her tiny cell were already fading away.The bars on her window disappearing to let in all the light. Keys turned in the lock and the thick steel door swung open.

The officer stood in the open doorway and shouted:‘Mr.Adams, it’s time to go.’

As she gathered the few possessions she had the officer grew impatient, ‘Hurry up, Mr.Adams, wipe that muck off your face and get out here now!’ he shouted. This was the moment of truth: the world awaited.Would she be accepted, believed? Or harassed, ridiculed? She passed the men on the wing, to the usual staring, pointing, and laughing. Through the last gate, outside she saw them standing. Not family nor friends but a media circus and a waiting taxi. In her brain she wanted to retreat to her cell. But in her heart, she knew who she was. With her head held high she walked to the taxi, ignoring the questions and flashing cameras.As she closed the taxi door the driver looked in the rear-view mirror and smiled.

Then he said,‘where to Miss?’

With that, she smiled.

Anon, Midlands Prison

The Boat

It was a lovely sunny summers evening. I was on holiday in Portnoo in County Donegal for the last two weeks in June. I decided to go for a walk on the beach before lunch.The sand felt lovely and warm on my bare feet. I almost reached the far end of the beach when in the distance I saw what looked like the outline of an upturned boat. There had been a bad storm the night before, so I was not surprised to see a boat washed up on the shore. As I got closer to the upturned boat. I could see the figure of a young woman lying beside the boat. I rushed over to her and checked her pulse. She was still alive but only just. I ran back across the beach to where I could get a signal on my phone. I

called the Coast Guard and explained to them what I’d found. As the young woman was so far across the beach and the tide was on the way in the Coast Guard dispatched the air sea rescue helicopter.The young woman was air lifted to the local hospital.When she had regained consciousness, I went to visit her. I learned her name was Anna and she was from France.The ship she was on had gone down in the storm the night before. Anna made a full recovery and returned to her family in France.We have kept in touch by email. I look forward to going over to France to visit Anna and her family.

Anon, Cork Prison

Fellowship Street

Our hearts boomed off the windows. Not at all discreet.We had come to make merry on Fellowship Street. Love like a whistle. Perfect in tune. Our hearts swelled within us. Like a swelling balloon.We had all we could carry. Sweet cherries were sweet.As we walked along merrily on Fellowship Street. I rode a bike with the handle bars raised. And the trees I climbed could have put me in the grave. But still I cower at thunder, as wise people do.When you realise something out there is bigger than you. And sometimes when I’m walking, down any old street, I smile at the stranger and think of Fellowship Street.

Anon, Maghaberry Prison

1. UNTITLED, Acrylic on Canvas, Anon, Magilligan Prison

2. SQUARE PIECES, Fused Glass, Group Project,Arbour Hill Prison

Education

‘You never stop learning. It opens up doors and takes your mind out of prison for a while.’

Anon, Cork Prison

Head Space

‘I like learning. It’s good for the head.’

Anon, Cork Prison

New Horizons

‘Coming to school gives you the chance to learn something new. It gives you a better sense of education.’

Anon, Cork Prison

Buoyancy

‘You get better education, and it gets you out of the cell.The school keeps you floating…’

Anon, Cork Prison

Last Time

He looked up to the sky as he walked to the edge just to enjoy the up above one last time.

Anon, Portlaoise Prison

Cricket

The cricketer played his final game; birds fell from their perches as the sky creased.Then the sea withdrew her lines and the umpire watching in the sky called time.

Anon, Portlaoise Prison

Boyhood Dream Comes True

Oh, to be charged so young at 13 by the highest courts! The perceived road welltrodden. At 29 years-of-age a boyhood dream comes true: sentenced, convicted by the almighty—premonished my fate.

Anon, Portlaoise Prison

1. FOUR SEASONS: AUTUMN, Acrylic on Canvas, Anon, Shannon Clinic 2. , CANAL DUCK, Pyrography and Watercolours on Beech Ply, Anon, Mountjoy Prison

3. DRAWING IN THE ART ROOM AT WHEATFIELD, Acrylics on Canvas, Anon,Wheatfield Prison 2 1

Micro Fiction

This is a new category for the Editorial Team. It wasn’t in the call-out but very naturally found its way into this edition. Despite the short word count, these pieces communicate important issues and themes leaving an emotional impact on the reader. We hope to receive more submissions for future editions in this category because it demonstrates how soundbites can significantly resonate.

Dogs ProjectTrust

Our art teacher told us about how the dogs in Dogs Trust were in trouble.They were running out of food and people were bringing dogs back to the place after Covid because they were going back to work. So, we wanted to help.We each picked a dog from the Dog Trust adoption list that were called ‘the Underdogs’ because nobody wanted them, and we did a painting of the dogs to make money.

I did a black and white staffie but it wasn’t a very good painting but then Eleanor, the teacher, said try not to be so neat and use a palette knife. Then my painting was brilliant, and I loved it so much. I gave it to my mother. So, I did another one for the Dogs Trust fundraising. Someone bought it and they were happy with it. It was another Staffie.

Anon, Mountjoy Prison

It can be difficult to differentiate between memoir, biography, autobiography, and recounting life experiences. The Editorial Team felt that these pieces were too ambiguous for the Memoir category but came into their own in a Life Writing category. While you get a sense of a writer’s personality you also get a sense of how they respond to life’s experiences with a touch of grace and humour which remain with the reader.

‘I miss the intimacy of a relationship, waking up beside someone, having a cuddle, planning date nights and being able to share the good and the bad times.

The Little Things…

Someone once asked me:‘What do you miss most, while doing a life sentence?’ My reply was long winded, emotional and went something like this:‘The things I’m going to say may not necessarily be in order of importance but I’ll throw them out and see where it takes me:

‘I miss my wee mum terribly, she died two months after I went prison. I miss our chats, our friendship and the silly way we were with each other. I especially miss each time when leaving her house and reversing the car to see Mum nearby point to her eye, cross her hands over her heart and then point to me, that was pretty special.

‘I miss my big son.We had an argument on New Year’s Eve 2022 and I haven’t been able to contact him since. Some family members tried to contact him for me but he changed his number and came off social media. I know he blames me for me being here in prison and not being with him but hopefully through time we can reconcile and get our relationship back on track.

‘I miss my dog, he’s a Staffie and he was as silly and playful as I used to be. He was four

and a half when I came to prison, I guess he’s about thirteen and a half now. I hope wherever he is, he’s happy and is walked and well looked after.

‘I miss spending time with my sisters. Being able to call in and get hugs on demand and being able to spoil them with silly gestures. Being able see them, have dinner together or cuddle up on the sofa and watch a movie, as well as my nieces and nephews. I miss being able to comfort them when things go wrong because I can only give a certain amount of hugs on a visit until you’re told to sit down or the team jump on you thinking you’re trying to traffic stuff through visits.

I miss sitting at the kitchen table, sorting itineraries for the next work day and having someone put their arms around your neck and tell you that they love you.

‘I miss the taste of proper food.The juice from a steak, the crunch of a well-cooked vegetable, the heat from a chilli.The flavours of the Far East and Asia, I used to love Chinese and Indian food.The taste of Haagen-Dazs ice cream, especially cookie dough flavour and salted caramel.

‘I miss sitting at the kitchen table, sorting itineraries for the next work day and having someone put their arms around your neck and tell you that they love you. Holding hands while walking bare foot on a beach and cuddling up in a shared blanket, watching the waves crash in during a beautiful sunset.

‘I miss being able to buy my own clothes and trying them on in a shop to get a feel for them.

‘I miss going to a shopping centre for food shopping,‘oh the varieties’.

‘I miss running my own life, running my own business and being a provider. It can be demoralising having money left in from family who have their own lives to live outside with all the expenses that entails but still always find a way to make sure that I’ve something in my IPC. I know they do this because I am loved but it is degrading that I have put them in this position because of my choices and my mistakes.

‘I miss being able to jump in a car and go for a long drive, not to anywhere in particular but just the feeling of complete freedom with the window down and my stereophonics album playing.

‘I miss going to the caravan, the excitement of knowing I didn’t have to work for a few days, and filling the fridge and freezer with all the delights that go along with a BBQ, including the refreshments.Waking up in the morning and getting some breakfast ready to go down to the beach and watch the sunrise. On rainy days, I recall the rain bouncing off the metal roof while I was drinking a glass of wine, and listening to Magic FM.

‘I miss the enjoyment of getting ready for a night out. Showering and changing into my glad rags, smelling like the latest bottle of aftershave I bought days earlier.

‘I miss my friends and being able to let my hair down and be silly.

‘One thing I really miss is my hair colour. I came to prison with dark hair and I’ll be leaving with it almost white.’

Anon, Magilligan Prison

A Normal Day in Prison

Anormal day for me would be getting up for breakfast, having something to eat and a cup of coffee.Then I get a shower when the doors open and clean my cell. Most mornings I’d go to the school or the gym if it is my landing’s turn. Life is very boring in Cloverhill as many people would tell you so its good to keep active otherwise, you’d stay in your cell especially in the winter. By doing that it makes you overthink things, well for me it does. Prison isn’t a nice place but for me I find it ok once I’m busy. I’ve been in and out most of my life but for the last 14 years I stayed out and had a good life. My problem was drugs and after being clean for over 14 years I relapsed and ruined all the good things I had going in my life. I have a beautiful little girl that I love and miss so much, it cuts me up inside for letting her down. I haven’t seen her since I came here but I don’t think it’s the right place for a child. She’s only turned four. So back to my day. I keep busy doing things that will better me and I just keep thinking about how I messed up my life but I know I am strong enough to get my life back. Prison is a waste of a life of missing out on the simple things we do day in and out. I hope one day my child will understand and I build up my drug free life again. If I did it for over 14 years straight, I can do it again.

Prison is for mugs and at the moment I am one of them. I do want to change again and not to be locked into a cell every night at 7pm while my family and child’s life goes on without me.

I am free, I just forget where I am, I just zone out and I’m at peace with myself.

So, try remember and stay strong for yourself and your family.We all have a light at the end of a tunnel. Make the most of the activities that you have at hand and soldier on because your day, and my day, will come. We will be back with the ones who stood by us and never gave up on us.

Anon, Cloverhill Prison

Calisthenics, Yoga and Education

Changed My Mind Set

I’m a life sentence prisoner. I am in prison 15 years this year.When I first came to prison I had a big ego.What I mean by that is I did not give a f*** about anything or anyone except for my family. It was my way or the highway, even for people trying to help me.

I got into all sorts of shit; I thought I knew it all, but I really knew f-all. I thought I was doing easy time sitting around, doing nothing compared to the way I’m doing my time now. If you were to pay me to go back doing time that way, with the mindset I have now, I would never go back. I believe it is because I started to train my mind and body through calisthenics, yoga and education. I started to go to school and do all of the courses that were on offer.

For me when I am training whether it’s for one hour or two hours, I am free, I just forget where I am, I just zone out and I’m at peace with myself.You could say my body is in prison but my mind is free. They say the human mind has 2,000 to 3,000 thoughts per hour and if you’re in prison most of those thoughts are likely to be negative. I don’t care how big or strong you are, everyone gets negative thoughts, even for people doing short sentences.

For me it was calisthenics, yoga and education that helped me to switch my thought process from negative to positive thinking.That’s where the benefits of training can help you. I know it’s easier said than done but don’t let your thoughts control you, you control your thoughts.

I know I said I’m in prison 15 years, but it was only four years ago that I started my fitness journey.When I started, I couldn’t even do one push up. I am 41 years of age and I feel like I am in the best shape of my life both physically and mentally. It’s all because I started to change my mind-set. I hope this story will help anyone struggling with their mental, physical health or their sentence.

I would just like to add, I know not everyone is into training but for me I had a passion for it and it’s what helped me. I’d like to encourage people to find what they are passionate about. It could be anything, art, writing, reading, music. Whatever it is, if you put everything into it, it will positively help you.

Anon, Progression Unit, Mountjoy Prison

It’s Not All Bad…

For years I wouldn’t go to the school, for me it was because of my dyslexia. I taught myself how to read and write but my dyslexia affected my spellings, that’s why I wouldn’t go to school. I started to set myself little goals and I started to challenge myself.

I still struggle with my spellings but the teachers in the school have been brilliant in helping me. My calisthenics and yoga also helped me with my mental strength, building my confidence to tackle my education. So I would encourage anyone struggling with their reading and writing, start going to the school, even if it’s just once a week. Start setting little goals.

When I first came to Cloverhill as a broken-down drug addict I thought I’d keep going down the path I’ve lived for the past few years, but I said to myself, ‘Now is the time to change things around.’ So, I did. I refused drugs, violence and the behaviours I had and focused on me.That started with school. As a secondary school dropout, I got back into education, finding the lost love I had for music and art and kept that up. After that came work, as a failing drug addicted electrician I changed into a hard-working focused worker that took pride in what I did. And because of these steps I took and the things I’ve changed I went from the shy, isolated, hidden away person versus when I first came in as a 20-yearold that would rather smoke my wages away. I’ve changed to the hard working, self-respecting, independent and confident man I am now. So just because someone comes to prison doesn’t mean they can’t turn their life around and change for the better.

Anon, Cloverhill Prison

1. UNDERDOG STAFFIE, Acrylics, Anon, Mountjoy Prison

2. JUST DO IT, Stencil and Spray Cans, Anon, Shelton Abbey Open Prison

Mistake

Ever been in trouble? I mean not your spilt milk situation. I’m talking about life flipped upside? No pun intended! Being human isn’t the easiest thing.We were never asked to be born, yet we breathe and to only breathe is to exist. Existing isn’t living. Sadly, we set different bars at which we consider living.

Some of us will do whatever it takes to live but mistakes are made along the way which make us human.

I’m human and like many I made a mistake. The mistake I made had consequences I couldn’t see with a crystal ball. Now I sleep on a blue gym mat something I haven’t used since high school.A lot of difference from a heavenly cushioned orthopaedic mattress with light soft silk sheets. I didn’t even have a bad back. Now I ask for paracetamol at times just to keep the excruciating pains in my back at bay.

I never thought I’d have to share a room with males especially four at my big age, that’s a lot of bodies - air isn’t limitless and privacy is non-existent. I can’t believe I even complained about sharing a bedroom with my demon infant brother when I was younger.

To top it off cold concrete walls cave in around my bubble. Summertime we regulate hot air as the small white fan pushes it across the enclosure. If snow falls, it’s a mission to not let your body kiss the metal bunk bed frame otherwise your sleep will be stalled by cold shivers.

One choice, one decision and now I call it one mistake.

Every day that goes by enables me to see how far the light at the end of the tunnel actually is until the day a man in a dark black gown decides my fate.

Using a sacred wooden hammer as if he was Thor.

By then our mental health has rotten on the inside like an apple fallen from the tree in the sun.

A number is decided and now know the consequences of our mistakes.

We are now not categorised from innocent until proven guilty. Just left with the guilt of our actions and time taken hangs on us as we shipped from remand to sentences. Don’t let your decisions define you. There is no race in life so take time and think. Improve and be the best version of yourself.Tough times don’t last only tough people last.

Anon, Cloverhill Prison

State and Prison

The monologue showcases how to write first-person (I) and second-person (you) narratives. The Editorial Team thoroughly enjoyed the narrative voice that emerges through these distinctive monologues, and in doing so, draws the reader in on a close emotional level.

Monolo ue

Discovering Discernment

Ilike to read dictionaries and discover new words. One evening in my cell I was reading the Bible.This got me interested in the word discernment. I looked the word up in the dictionary. In the Oxford English Dictionary, the first meaning of discern is “to recognise or become aware of something.” Another meaning is “having or showing good judgement”. Let me put it simply – you’re going to grasp and be aware of the meaning – like a scent – if someone speaks about something and I can discern it’s a lie because of my good judgement. If you know something is true in your heart of hearts you can recognise, become aware of it and then share this with others. Once you reach this realisation you can then decide if you want to approach the person who is not telling the truth.

Maybe you’d invite them to sit down, give them a better understanding of what

I wonder how many people have gone to prison over a word that has been misunderstood.

they’re saying because you’ve discerned what they’re saying is not true.You’d break it all down, to find what’s behind what they’re saying. Some people, however, are just not good at listening.They just want to keep on saying what they’re saying. So then you need to discern whether to keep on with them or walk away. But all of this is a moment in time.You could approach the person again, another time, and you might get a different reaction.

Now sitting in my cell, I wonder how many people have gone to prison over a word that has been misunderstood.

Anon, Portlaoise Prison

When you pack and pile a person in a precarious prison, then you place that person in a particular position.And if you keep on putting that person in a difficult position in prison, and perpetuating the same decisions, you’ll continue to see addicts and the poor as the opposition. It can be like a labyrinth with no end, and no way out which is built to keep you in, and no-one there to help you out. It may take a long, long time to figure something out, til you start to understand that there was always a way out. But time waits for no man as the old saying goes, and as another saying goes, I’m going to clean my nose and keep it that way. Because people nowadays in prison are left to rot, and no-one can tell me they’re not. So instead of locking kids up on the spot, I think they should get another chance. Because families we loved previously will never be the same if we are left to rot.

Anon, Mountjoy Prison

1. WHEATFIELD LANDINGS, Acrylics, Anon,Wheatfield Prison

2. PAST PRESENT FUTURE

TRIPTYCH, Acrylic on Canvas, Anon, Magilligan Prison

Are

You

Saying Those Men Are Victims?

Who am I?

What we are told matters. Since childhood, I have been told that I am bold. My older brother and his friends nicknamed me ‘barrel-popper’. For those who don’t know, that’s a tool used to steal cars. A car thief.That’s was what they expected me to be.

What we experience matters. I always had a temper. But as I got older, I got angrier and angrier. I would lash out and hurt people. My mother used to tell me that I was an animal for how I behaved. She could not see that I was just reflecting back the violence I was experiencing.

What we believe about ourselves matters.The older I got, the more vicious I got. I started to believe that there was something wrong with me. I thought that I was evil. I eventually got a pentagram (the symbol for evil), tattooed on my back, to declare to the world that I was, in fact, evil.

RESPONSIBILITY

As we read the many submissions, it became apparent that the concepts of victims and victimhood were major themes in this year’s work. While we are restricted by page and word count, we also believe that it is important to showcase some of the academic thinking in this area of study. We hope you enjoy these extracts from two longer pieces of fine writing.

Extracts

decisions we made. […] Despite the positive intentions of our work, when the play was spoken about in the media, a well-known broadcaster kept asking,‘are you saying those men are victims?’ in a condescending tone.This question typifies what is wrong with public discourse […] I, the causer of hurt, the inflictor of pain, how could I ever be considered a victim? How could anyone ever see my victimhood? What does it mean to be a victim anyway? According to Collins dictionary, ‘A victim is someone who has suffered as a result of someone else’s actions or beliefs, or as a result of unpleasant circumstances.’

Those hidden parts are the ghosts of my past. You don’t see them, but I feel them. Sometimes they hijack my thoughts, my feeling and my actions.”

As the years passed, I started to hate myself. I couldn’t even look myself in the mirror. Why did I hurt people? I just couldn’t understand it. My self-hatred finally led to multiple suicide attempts. By the time I entered prison, I had been left with only two choices, either go on as I was and die, or find a way to figure it all out and heal. I have managed to heal. Healing is hard work. It involved countless hours spent meditating, reading, writing, stretching and training. However, it was definitely worth it […] When offered the opportunity to engage with a drama workshop centred on creating a play out of our lived experiences, I jumped at it.We worked hard over several months to develop a sequence of scenes that explained how our past traumatic experiences influenced our future behaviour. It wasn’t about excusing our actions. It was about explaining that the social and cultural context within which our offending took place had an impact on the

V

ICTIMS

You see, I am made of many things. Some of those things you can see, many you can’t. Those hidden parts are the ghosts of my past.You don’t see them, but I feel them. Sometimes they hijack my thoughts, my feeling and my actions. These ghosts, they come in many forms […] Sometimes when I am on drugs, my ghosts return. […] Thankfully, I am not just made of ghosts. I am made of nice things too. If you look closely, you will see I am just like you. I was once a baby, a blank slate, with no ghosts. People used to look at me and smile. I used to make people happy. I can still make people happy. I can be a good father. I can be a good partner. I can be a valuable member of society. A victim is someone who suffers as a result of unpleasant circumstances.Therefore, I and many others like me, are victims of your denial of our victimhood…It erodes our chance of living a good life. It leaves us with no choice but to commit further crime. It forces more ghosts onto the train. Did you know that the amount of violence we perpetrate is often directly related to the amount of violence we have experienced? Did you know that my violence was actually a manifestation of my victimhood? Did you know that a condescending and hostile attitude towards people like me actually exacerbates the issue and prevents a productive discussion about providing the exact supports I need to heal? Did you know that I am much more than my ghosts? My ghosts drove me to hurt others.YES! I have hurt others. But now that’s all you can see. My ghosts?You can’t see them. Even if you could, you would probably still deny that they exist.When you see me, you see a grown man. A violent man. But when I started gathering

my ghosts, I was just a small innocent boy.That small boy is still me . . . I am also a victim! To you the reader, as someone who has also inflicted suffering on others, I want you to know that no matter what happened in your life, no matter what you have done, or what people have done to you, you deserve to heal!

Anon, Loughan House Open Prison

Ideal Victims?

(Open Universtity Blog extract for Criminlogy)

‘People who die in state custody should be seen as victims rather than as somehow responsible for their own deaths’. WHY ARE DEATHS IN CUSTODY NOT VIEWED AS IDEAL VICTIMS?

According to Christie (1986a, 1986b, cited in Drake and Scott, 2023, p169) the ideal victim is ‘someone who deserves the most public sympathy and compassion and is seen as entirely blameless, innocent and absolutely undeserving of whatever has happened to them, therefore, people that die in police custody or in prison would not meet these attributes.They are seen as the enemy to be disliked and shunned (Drake and Scott, 2023). Such stereotypical views on people that die in prison or police custody is unfair, as anyone that dies due to the action of others deserves to be seen as a victim. However, social hierarchies play a significant role in how victims and perpetrators are defined […] the powerful defines who is the victim or perpetrator, but it should not matter where someone is on the social ladder, the death of a person by the hands of another have the right to be seen as a victim, ‘Recognizing the victim and their needs can be seen as a step forward in creating more balanced, fair and honest response to crime and social harmony’ (Drake and Scott, 2023, p168).

REFERENCES

Drake, D.H. and Scott, D. (2023) ‘Victims and perpetrators’, in D.H. Drake,A. Nightingale, and D. Scott. DD105 introduction to criminology book 1. Milton Keynes:The Open University, pp. 155-184.

The Open University (2023) ‘Week 10 victims and perpetrators. DD105: introduction to criminology. Pp. 82-105

Anon, Castlerea Prison

First Impressions on Arriving in Ireland

The first time I came to Ireland was August 2013. I came for a better life and to earn money. My experiences in Ireland were good. I lived with my family in Co. Meath, but like everyone else I didn’t like the weather and it was quite difficult driving on the left, but I soon got used to it. I started work in construction with my brother. I remember one time when I was working on a house and my English still wasn’t that good. It was getting late and we needed to finish the job. As a result, we hadn’t eaten and the owner – a lady, asked me if I was hungry.And I replied,‘no, I’m Romanian.’ I thought she was asking me if I was Hungarian. I remember this story from time to time and it makes me laugh – a funny story going around my head.

But I like Ireland. I have met some nice people, experienced good food and a rich culture.

Anon, Castlerea Prison

1. VASE OF BIG FLOWERS, Acrylic on Canvas, Anon, Hydebank Wood College & Women’s Prison

2. DEO METRIC ROSE, Pen/Pencil on Paper, Anon, Magilligan Prison

3. UNTITLED, Acrylic on Board, Anon, Maghaberry Prison

Once again, the Editorial Team were delighted to receive so many submissions for our New Writers category, and we had some hard choices to make selecting work for publication! As you can see, the writing is diverse, personal, emotionally honest, and not without humour.

Jealousy

When you fear that your neighbour’s roses will grow more beautifully than yours, you forget how to water your own.When your own roses are dead, you will hate your neighbour for having beautiful roses.

I strongly believe that jealousy comes married to hate and both of them are born from fear. The world is moved by two powerful feelings: fear and love. Strong people choose to be led by love, while the weakest ones embrace the fear and hate. Jealous individuals are people who hate themselves and everybody else, unable to be happy for another’s happiness. If you can’t be happy for a friend’s success, then you are not a friend and jealous people are nobody’s friends. Jealousy is a poison that consumes people from inside out, their only contribution to this world is spreading an emotional cancer all around them.

How I mind my own garden I am never fearful that my neighbour’s one is more beautiful or bigger than mine, and if I can plant one rose in my neighbour’s garden, I will do it happily, even though mine is not yet how I would like

it to be. I am the kind of person who is honestly clapping for my friend’s success, knowing that my day will come as well.

What you see and do in the outside world is just a reflection of your world inside. I personally thank God that jealousy and hate are alien feelings to me because I am aware of what type of life they cause for the people infected with them.

Jealous individuals are hateful and are fake friends.They try to instigate others into hate because they don’t have enough just with their own.They are control freaks and toxic as hell, in a continual competition with everyone, instead of competing with themselves.

Loving individuals are peacemakers and kind souls who contribute to this world with healing through love. Behind a genuine loving soul there is always God smiling, and behind a jealous hating soul there is always the Devil laughing. The emotional cancer that jealous people spread not just makes them live in Hell, they also bring Hell on Earth to others around them.

How I am not able to hate, I don’t hate jealous people back because they hate me. Instead I feel mercy for them and I wish them healing, even though I know that some are lost cases.

Institutionalised

For most people prison is a punishment, but is it really? I asked myself this question over the years. When I was a kid, I was very angry, angry at the world, that anger got me locked up for almost a decade. Looking back at it, I realise that it saved me. It saved me from me! Juvenile taught me how to control me anger and to speak about things without losing me head over it, and it wasn’t perfect but it felt better. For the first time in me life I felt heard, people cared and wanted to correct the wrongs in my system, in a decent way.

After a sentence of 8 years, I was free to walk, it didn’t take much time to fly back into jail, I couldn’t handle all of the outside world!

Loving individuals are peacemakers… 1 2

Heaven on Earth can be tasted just through giving and receiving love, being useful and

After juvenile me life was bumpy and messy in some ways, I got back into jail a few times as well, people never understood that I was fine with jail and all, they were more confused when I came out, I was brand new, so calm and different.

I realise that I sometimes need to go back inside to come back to myself. Like I need jail to recover in some way! Is that a strange thing? I don’t think so.The life on the outside is chaotic, no structure, I live on autopilot, barely sleep and so on.

In here you have a routine, there is no tossing and turning, you do what you’re asked and be polite. Its like a reboot kinda thing. So, coming back to being institutionalised I can definitely say that I am! Jail is me extreme way of time-out when I really need it!

Anon, Dóchas Centre

happy for others, and I am sorry that jealous people are not able to enjoy it because of their tormented souls.

I wish them healing, but from a long distance, because if I keep them close I know for a fact that they will bring nothing good into my life.

Anon, Dóchas Centre

My Experience in Prison

My name is Ceaza Paccioti.* In the heart of 2023, fate led me to a three-year sentence in the walls of Warkland Prison*, Dublin.Adapting to this new world was like learning to dance in the rain; challenging, yet a test of resilience. Sharing a cell was akin to living in a nutshell, with privacy a rare gem. My cellmate, a soul battling drug addiction, often sang the blues of his life, making our small cell feel even smaller.The window, our only eye to the world, offered but a sliver of light. In the corridors of Warkland, conversations were a tapestry of diverse threads – age, roots, and tales differing like night and day.With 85% of my fellow inmates, dialogues often felt like a journey with no destination, circling around the merry-go-round of reoffending without a hint of regret or change. A disheartening reality, indeed.Yet, amidst this cloud, 15% shone like stars in the night sky, adhering to the rules, seeking knowledge and growth in school and sports. It was a three-month odyssey before I crossed paths with these souls, each a beacon of hope, transforming their lives into sagas of redemption.

Yet, in this game of survival, silence was my shield; speaking out against them would have painted a target on my back.

In the realm of the incarcerated, bullies and gangs wove their webs, disregarding the unwritten laws of human decency. My first month was a trial by fire, as I faced the sharp tongues and fierce fists of these lords of chaos.Yet, in this game of survival, silence was my shield; speaking out against them would have painted a target on my back.

The government, in its wisdom, has sown seeds of reformation – programs, activities, education, and sports, all paving the way for a prisoner to metamorphose into a better version of themselves. My journey took a turn when I embraced education and labour, lifting my spirit and granting me the sanctuary of a single cell. English class, under the tutelage of a teacher who seemed heaven-sent, became my haven. He guided me in unravelling my inner fears through the power of the pen. By the end of this chapter, I aim to emerge not just freed in body but also as a sage in the art of writing.

In conclusion, the tapestry of prison life calls for delicate adjustments.The minds troubled by shadows need a different kind of solace, not the tumult of a cell shared with souls hardened by heavier deeds.The elders among us deserve to walk their path without being overshadowed by the exuberance of youth.And as for the gangs that taint our collective quest for reformation, their reign must be questioned. For those of us

who breathe better in a smoke-free world, our choice must be respected, just as we respect those who choose otherwise.

*Names have been changed Anon, Mildlands Prison

One Night in Bangkok

Iwake up, right, up in Southill, the kinda place where ye need a sixth sense just to dodge the dodgy dealings, y’know? Jaysus, the head on me was bangin’.Think I had a few too many cans with the lads the night before. I was feenin’ for something to settle meself.

So, I stumbles around, finds one of me ma’s little tablets – not for the pain in your head, more like the pain in your heart.

Knocked back a few and got that buzz goin’, then a quick cup of tea (none of that fancy stuff, just the regular Barry’s). Out the door, and bam, there’s Paudie from Moyross. His eyes are screamin’ ‘Mischief.’

‘Whatcha on, lad?’ I says, tryna act the hard man.

‘Lookin’ for a buzz,’ he grins.‘You?’ ‘Always, bud.’

We heads down, skulking around like a pair of sneaky foxes. Passing near Thomond Park, we spots a pub. Not our regular haunt, but sure, when in Rome...The door’s slightly open, inviting like.

3

Paudie, eyes wide, goes,‘Oi, think there’s a score in there?’

Without waitin’ for my nod, he’s already halfway inside.The place is stuffed – and not just with drink. I spots a rifle on the wall.‘For decoration,’ I bet.And then, jackpot – a biscuit tin, looking all innocent, but when I peeped inside, it was bursting with notes.‘Mate, we’re feckin’ loaded!’ Paudie whispers, his voice high-pitched with excitement.

Trying to bolt, everything turns comical. I’m about as graceful as a giraffe on ice, and Paudie’s trying to play it cool while sweating buckets.

Somehow, we leg it without gettin’ nabbed. Hit the Cruises Street, flashed the cash. Paudie gets himself fresh Nike Air Max – ‘For the look,’ he claims.And me? Straight over to Supermac’s to stuff my faaaaaaccccceeeeeeee.

Back in Moyross, we’re the talk of the town, legends for a day. All ‘cause of that cheeky score down by Thomond.

Anon, Midlands Prison

Trying to bolt, everything turns comical. I’m about as graceful as a giraffe on ice,and Paudie’s trying to play it cool while sweating buckets.

A Life Without Books: A Return to the Dark Ages

In his autobiography Frederick Douglass, former slave and abolitionist, describes a period of his life in Baltimore having realised the power of language and written communication and how he wished to understand what was written on the discarded religious tracts which blew about the city streets.

His ‘master’s’ wife had started teaching him to read, however when the ‘master’ found out this was brought to an abrupt halt. Motivated by the belief that if subjected people got access to knowledge and how to utilise it then the natural order of things would be overturned.This power relationship was likewise implemented by rulers and governments since the birth of the printing press which made access to books and pamphlets more universal.

William Tyndale was sentenced to be burnt at the stake for printing the bible in English (c. 1500), with an aspiration to make the bible more accessible to the ‘common people’. People had to rely on those in authority to both read, translate and interpret what was on the pages.

Russian author Maxim Gorky describes people being incarcerated for long sentences for printing, distributing or possessing literature which was deemed to be seditious.That which described the hardships under which people lived in Tsarist Russia.Taking Gorky’s works as an example of the invaluable nature of literature and books in general we find within both a realistic description of this period and furthermore the fears, hopes, dreams and minutia of people’s interpersonal relationships.

Nazi Germany engaged in public book burnings most memorably at Bebelplatz in Berlin. The German author Heinrich Heine rather ominously prophesised:‘That was only a prelude, where they burn books, they will in the end burn people.’

Nelson Mandela describes in his autobiography,The Long Walk to Freedom, how on arrival at Robben Island the only

book he was allowed was the bible.Which he proceeded to read from cover to cover. His realisation that whilst engaged in reading he was effectively free during these periods. Books can transform lives, the reading process is a reflective process in which as we read we think, imagine and analyse.

Primarily a book can be looked upon as a means of learning and understanding. However, the first book on any subject should be viewed as a start of a journey which has no conclusion merely a thirst for more.

1Encouragement of reading should be championed.A book is portable and can be picked up at any time there is a free minute. Reading about other peoples histories, cultures and literatures is valuable in itself but is also highly transferable in assisting people navigate their lives.

I believe therefore that a good barometer as to how people are doing is are they getting access to books, and can they discuss them with others. I definitely believe this should be a priority in any prison and that is to encourage wide access to books and their discussion.

Anon, Magilligan Prison

Response to All In Magazine

The power of reading is evident in these reviews. In “A Life Without Books: A Return to the Dark Ages”, we see the lasting and timeless impact of books and how reading has fed into writing. We hope it also nourishes the readers of this magazine.

Review

This afternoon before I went to get my depressing lunch one of my friends on the landing came to show me a magazine called All In. I looked at it and noticed a colourful cover, very stylish if you ask me. On the cover written with capital letters and in bold is information about what is inside. Art and Writings by people in custody, North and South.This–dramatically–shot dead my interest. But I looked inside and to my amazement I actually enjoyed most of it. I found a few cool stories written by people in a similar situation to mine.There were even a few pages dedicated to Loughan house and even one or two pictures. I looked at them very

closely since this way is the closest, I ever got to open prison.

Later I found some drawings. In fact, all very impressive. If somebody likes poetry, then there is that for him. Personally, it’s not my thing.Another cool thing is Irish myths and folklore.This is something prisoners like me will enjoy. Like me = not Irish. Most of us never took the time to learn this type of thing about Ireland and we should. In my shy opinion a few things are missing, for example, Sudoku or a similar puzzle would be nice and cost nothing. The book review section is just sad. I think if there is a section for poetry or cooking recipes then there should also be a space for song writers if there are any. And if it was up to me, I would create a section for Irish history.

Anyway, I think this magazine is a great idea at least for those of us who have mastered the skill of reading. Another thing I like about it is North and South involved in the same project. Maybe for Irish people this is something not unusual but to me it does mean something. I think copies of it should be sent to Ministers of Justice on both sides to show them that it is not just drugs and fighting.

Anon, Castlerea Prison

1. COPIES OF ALL IN MAGAZINE IN RECEPTION AT IRISH PRISON SERVICE HQ LONGFORD APRIL

2024, Photograph, Tom Shortt

2. UNTITLED, Pen and Markers, Anon, Magilligan Prison

Singing Heart

WARNING! SEVERE DEPRESSION AHEAD! PLEASE TAKE CAUTION NOT TO STARE TOO LONG

EVERYTHING IS FINE, DRINK TEA AND ENJOY TV, PRISON WORKS, PAY TAXES AND BE QUIET.

These are the symptoms and warning signs of a failing heart.These are those that tell of how the heart who does not sing can come to be so.This is the red red run.This is the grind.This is my oldest friend in his silent and unknowingly phenomenal process. Interchangeable dimensions of the soul and fundamental flaws of the designs that control and divide what we are at the heart of our imperfection… …there are no beautiful people, only different colours, and it is the spectrum itself in its contrast, that creates the illusion of superficial beauty…

What interests me is the true and absolute beauty hidden inside the mind, partly visible in the eyes, though we learn to develop a disguise that through time perfects or falls apart perfectly into an array of what society tells us to be, what we really want to be, and the idea that either are supplement to each other….

…the power of sound overcomes what is hidden inside the hearts and minds that shape our own personality and intellect, though we have many…

…each a desire, each a heart with a mind ruling over its domain, equally influenced by its subjects protest of logic. The heart wants what the heart wants and the mind can try to overrule but often desire designs itself in this way.To make sense to the mind and appear logical, when maybe this particular desire is bad for you, addictions, bad relationships. One more smoke in guise of it’s the last one, appearing logical to the mind, the heart wants what it wants, distraction from pain it’s in. Maybe we can change, maybe we can move past our mistakes, knowing truly that the love is lost and there is no rekindling spark, but the heart wants what the heart wants, not to be alone in the dark to feel the comfort of another’s song.The mind will try to tell the heart, but it has to learn the hard way…

…what is most dangerous, is when the heart no longer acts upon its want, when it does no longer call out, no longer sings.The mind becomes worried with the silence and then resigns to logical processes of basic power saving survival mode. A singing heart thrives, it learns to be better, it sets out to be heard by other like-minded hearts but in a deafening boom of confusion, of contradictory hearts who overrule each

other in necessity of survival, the true desire cannot be, the heart will not be heard not even to himself….

…and after a while he gives up, he decides not to sing as the point in doing so appears futile. This is when depression creeps in.The sound of silence as an empty and weak heartbeat lazily murmurs along out of time. Eyes open with no vision… ears bound to the familiar beat of the drum and pluck of the string…

…but the dull dark ways of these words give nothing, and when the light is concerned run and hide in fear. The past few months I have not had the willpower to create which can make me very depressed.This leads to pieces like these.When I write these pieces the numbness begins to thaw…and what’s underneath? A warming heart. Soon the mental block dissipates and becomes the drive you need to write fifteen songs… this guitar is a fickle mistress and at times spiteful, but if I can write such physical interpretations of my own heart broken, not singing, and by this releasing the energy, then it shows the dark places you can go to with music and more importantly come back from, each time leaving some light where the dark had taken hold before.

A singing heart thrives, it learns to be better, it sets out to be heard by other like-minded hearts…”

Musical chairs? ...no, but I play musical battles every so often I am injured. Sometimes it can be very difficult to overcome periods of depression and not

The piece selected for the Music section evoked much discussion among the Editorial Team. We debated over the style and how the content relates to music as an artistic discipline. Ultimately, what stood out is that while it is experimental in presentation – and this immediately catches the reader’s eye – the use of imagery, space, punctuation and beautiful lines such as “a singing heart thrives” makes it a piece that we were compelled to publish.

writing anything. But writing itself in this form is a good catalyst. Sometimes you don’t know what you want to write about musically or in any form but particularly music for me. I like to draw lyrics from my poems and create music around it or vice versa. Other helpful tips for creative ruts are to find new material, new influence.‘if you don’t have time to read, you don’t have the time (or the tools) to write’ (Stephen King).This is very true if you have no new influences the old ones can become stale.

Anon, Magilligan Prison

Articles

This section is the most diverse in terms of theme. It reflects each writer’s measured concerns and gives the reader insight into the topic and pause for thought. The Editorial Team have all worked in prison education and selected “The Prisoner and the Mirror” (see page 3) as the lead article for this edition of the magazine as it reminds us of the journey that so many of our students go through as prisoners. We felt it expressed the ideas and experience of selfhood, reflection, and acceptance powerfully and honestly. We were also taken with the considerable care and compassion with which #BEKIND and “Daisy’s Law” were written and how they relate to the themes of victims and victimhood that emerged in other sections of this magazine.

Life with the Possibility of Paroles

For life sentence prisoners in the north, we are awarded a minimum tariff that we must serve before being considered for release on life licence.This release is not automatic, is not an entitlement and is certainly not guaranteed, and is seldom achieved. In the

three years leading up to that tariff expiring, a period of pre-release testing begins and we become eligible for paroles.This normally begins with short periods of release with prison staff and hopefully we progress to longer periods of unaccompanied release until we eventually have a phased release back into the community.This period of your sentence is full to the brim with the entire spectrum of human emotions, and for me, it is like being on remand when you are essentially in no man’s land, unsure of what is still ahead of you. For the majority of our sentences we hold up that tariff expiry date as D-Day, or the finish line. It is only as we approach it that we realise this is not actually the case. I was returning to the prison after my last day out and the weather was horrible but a little bit of sunshine broke through and there was a beautiful rainbow that was directly in front of the car.This was the first time that I ever saw one that was so close to me. I could actually see the end of the rainbow and I was amazed. I wasn’t exactly expecting a pot of gold, but what I found really struck me, and in some ways I found it to be quite poetic. It is impossible to reach the end of a rainbow—it is relative.That is the more you move forward the more it moves ahead of you. In many ways that is what the end of life sentence is like—just always that little bit out of reach. We hit this period right before the end that is full of uncertainty, and where every action, reaction and emotion is scrutinized for potential risk. Suddenly you are nothing more than an ant being studied under a microscope. In the earlier parts of my sentence I could not understand how so many people failed the ‘test’ during this period whether it was for failed drug tests or breeching release conditions, and it even became a bit of jealous frustration. I felt that people were just throwing away opportunities that I never would have. Well, first and foremost, they were never my opportunities to use or to squander. More importantly however, it is only now that I am part of that process myself that I can appreciate the extent of the pressure that people in this situation face.This is people’s first taste of freedom, and in some cases, after decades of incarceration, but this freedom is being doled out in tantalisingly small snippets.A few hours spent with family and friends away from the confines of prison walls are glorious, but they are overshadowed by the constant checking of your watch counting down to that inevitable, agonizing goodbye before wilfully presenting ourselves back into incarceration for another month. I never anticipated the moral fibre that this seemingly simple act takes. For me I try to turn it into positive determination that will sustain me for the next few weeks until the next time when I get to do it all again. There is however a heavy tax to pay. Once on this journey you are slowly trying to pick up the pieces of your life, or are beginning to forge a new one. It is a time when you acutely appreciate that life has moved on without you. Kids have grown, people have passed away or moved, and cities have changed.We now have the unenviable task of trying to understand how we fit back into society and into our communities. For some this involves alien areas, and we all know how

daunting this venture can be under normal circumstances let alone having to contend with the daily politics of prison life or the pressures of life licencing. We all assume that this should be a period of joy, where we let out a sigh of relief as we take that one final push towards the finish line.The reality is something entirely different. For many of us, we reach that finish line only to find the goalpost has shifted.The racecourse is not linear, and many of us find ourselves set back to the start, like a hamster on a wheel going round and round.

We have told ourselves for so long that they cannot stop the clocks, but now we realize that neither can we, and we no longer have anything left to count down to, and instead the count starts going up.

Anon, Magilligan Prison

Daisy’s Law

‘Birthdays really weighed heavily on me because that just marks the day I came into the world…no one was celebrating my arrival—I arrived in the world as evidence of a rape and a child that needed to go into the care system because of that.’ These are the words of Daisy, a woman whose mother, then aged 13, was raped by her 29year-old father.

At present, children like Daisy are considered simply an ‘aggravating factor’ in someone else’s trauma.They are not victims in their own right. Daisy’s Law aims to change all that.

Previously, the UK Government announced it was going to change the law to acknowledge people born of rape as victims in their own right.The forthcoming Victims and Prisoners Bill will also recognise bereaved families and children who have witnessed domestic abuse.

Dominic Raab, then Justice Secretary, said: ‘No child born in these horrific circumstances should be left to suffer alone, which is why we must ensure they can access vital support whenever they may need it.

‘OurVictims Bill will amplify their voices and boost support for all victims at every stage of the justice system.’

TheVictims’ Code already ensures victims like Daisy can be referred for support such as counselling or therapeutic services.The new legislation will put the principles of this code into law.

One of the most difficult things a person could have to contemplate is the nature of their very existence.

‘I was only 18 when I found out what had happened.And that is a lot to carry. I remember thinking: Do I look like him? Do I look like my birth father? Do I have the face of my birth mother’s rapist? I represent the worst thing that’s happened to her.’

At just seven days old Daisy went into foster care before eventually being adopted.

‘My whole life has been dictated by this act of rape, so I have no issue using the word victim,’ she added.

‘My situation has led me to be adopted, which has its own trauma.

‘It’s led me to have a huge concern about whether my birth mother wants to meet me what I represent for her.

‘My own sense of identity.There was a short time when I just thought, God, have I got this kind of bad gene?’

One of the most difficult things a person could have to contemplate is the nature of their very existence. For Daisy it was the consideration that, had her mother not been raped, she would not exist.

‘To anybody that talks to me and feels that, well, what I’m saying is that my existence is a mistake? Yes.’

‘My birth mother was raped as a child. That shouldn’t ever have happened.

‘It’s something a child should never have to face but if she’d had better support, maybe she would have decided on a termination.And if she had, I wouldn’t be here. I just simply wouldn’t exist.

‘And there would be someone else sat here, doing this campaign.’

Researchers at the University of Durham analysed data relating to rape and pregnancy rates and found that between 2,080 and 3,356 children could have been born from rape in 2021 alone.

Also identified were serious long-term impacts. For example it has been reported that some 85% of children born of rape display developmental or behavioural issues later in life. 2

Daisy has been supported by the Centre for Women’s Justice and, Kate Ellis, a lawyer working with Daisy had this to say:

‘Children born of rape need to be recognised as victims of crime.’

‘We need to recognise the hidden harms that rape causes for children born as a result.’

The matter of Daisy’s Law has been raised with the Irish Government.The Minister of Justice has been asked if she is aware of Daisy’s Law and if she has any intention to legislate.

‘I am introducing important reforms to support and protect vulnerable victims and ensure that our criminal justice system is more victim-centred.’

‘As I understand it, Daisy’s Law will be covered in the UK Victims and Prisoners Bill which before the Houses of Parliament in the UK.’

‘Officials in my Department are aware of this initiative and will monitor its progress.’

It is vitally important that people like Daisy receive all the support and recognition they deserve and need. To this end, it is essential that the Irish Government, as well as the Stormont Government, adopt Daisy’s Law at the earliest opportunity.

Anon, Magilligan Prison

1. THE

PRISONER, Mixed Media on Board, Anon, Mountjoy Prison

2. LITTLE EGRET,Acrylics on Paper, Anon, Midlands Prison

#BEKIND

#B

EKIND was a trending hashtag which was created in 2017 by Lucy Alexander, a mother who lost her son to suicide. Caroline Flack’s death to suicide which happened on the 15th of February 2020 made the hashtag #BEKIND gain new momentum. Sometimes I think we forget that being kind is not just a hashtag or a word. Kindness is key for a better prison life for us all.

When I think about all deaths by suicide because of bullying and unkindness it makes me very sad. After all being here in prison is very hard and we don’t need others being unkind or bullying us.This got me thinking how we all need to be kinder to each other. The thing is we all have our own stuff going on which can be tough.As well as the stress of being in prison and the loss of our freedom. Sometimes when someone is kind to us it gives us a lift and helps a bad day feel a little easier.

Being kind can be a simple act like opening a door for someone, or making someone a cup of tea, or just being there to listen to someone, or being helpful.This can mean the world to someone, and you could help them have a better day.What we don’t need in prison is unkindness, or bullying as this can make someone who is struggling feel worse. Being kind is key for a better prison life for everyone. If you are struggling and need someone to talk to then please reach out. You can talk to a Listener or ring Samaritans on your phone by putting in number 99 in after your pin. Or if you want to you can talk to a prison chaplain.

I myself have found prison life hard and have had people being unkind to me. I rang Samaritans because unkind comments kept

happening, I found this very helpful, and things have got better for me. So please remember that words have the power to hurt someone, or you can choose to be kind, do kind things and use kind words. I know that I will try and always be kind and mindful of others.

In a world where you can be anything, be kind.

Anon, Dóchas Centre

Nigerian Traditional Funerals

Traditional funerals in Nigeria encompass various religions and regions, each with significant ties to its own cultural beliefs. Nigeria is composed of three principal ethnic groups: Igbo, Hausa, andYoruba. Among these, there are over 250 spoken languages, each distinct from the others, resulting in diverse cultures and beliefs.

TRIBAL AND CULTURAL SIGNIFICANCE

It is crucial for the different tribes to conduct funeral rites in accordance with their cultural beliefs and practices. Most tribes hold a belief in life after death and the idea of avenging those who have caused an untimely demise. In certain Nigerian cultures, premature death, particularly among the youth, is viewed as taboo. In such cases, rituals and consultations with oracles become frequent to determine the causes of such early deaths.These rituals are believed to enable the spirit of the deceased

to seek vengeance. Conducting thorough and respectful funeral rites is seen as a way to properly send off the departed.The absence of family members at these rituals is often met with accusations of disrespect.

These events, involving extensive gatherings of young men, family, and friends, are indicative of the larger social functions such ceremonies serve.

Ego and Status: It is well-known that wealthy families strive to maintain their social standing and success in society, often utilizing funerals as an opportunity to display generosity and affirm financial status. Even families of limited means may go to great lengths, sometimes selling valuable assets, to ensure a fitting send-off.The Igbo culture, for example, requires a seven-day funeral ceremony during which the deceased’s family is expected to provide hospitality to the community.These events, involving extensive gatherings of young men, family, and friends, are indicative of the larger social functions such ceremonies serve.

TRADITION VERSUS MODERNITY

The interplay between traditional practices and Christianity is complex.While some Christian families prefer to mourn in a more cost-effective and simple Christian manner, societal expectations often prioritize traditional methods.This dichotomy can place a financial strain on bereaved families, regardless of the support received from friends, relatives, and the wider community.

KINGSMEN AND AGE GRADES

In the Eastern and Southern parts of Nigeria, kingsmen and age-grade groups hold significant sway in societal matters. These groups adhere to cultural norms and regulations that govern their societies and are instrumental in funeral proceedings.They offer traditional advice and oversee the conduct of funerals, ensuring that rites are properly performed.

RIGHTS AND OBLIGATIONS

Upon a father’s passing, it is customary for the eldest son to inherit the family’s assets, including lands.This inheritance comes with the responsibility to care for the younger family members.The eldest son becomes the pillar and foundation of the family, pivotal in decision-making and providing guidance.

CONCLUSION

In conclusion, Nigerian culture and traditional funerals serve multiple purposes.They honour the deceased and support the local economy. However, the reality is that many families face financial difficulties following these elaborate ceremonies.

Anon, Midlands Prison

1. UNTITLED, Acrylic on Canvas, Anon, Maghaberry Prison

2. GAZA, Acrylics on Canvas, Anon, Mountjoy Prison

Is Freedom Just an Illusion?

Look around you and tell me what you see….

I see the same thing every day, every time I stop to look, I see the same people doing the same thing, going to a job they detest for a boss they can’t stand, working their bodies into the ground and their mind to exhaustion before going home and sitting in front of an oversized TV, hypnotised, being told what to want, how to think and how to act before falling asleep on the sofa then waking up and doing the same thing all over again, day after day, week after week, year after year… We make around 35,000 decisions everyday but how many are we even aware of making? We repeat the same process over and over, every day from the second we wake we are never truly awake. Routine and habit allow the brain to stay disengaged so we can go through the daily ritual of putting our socks on the same foot first, putting our shoes on and tying our laces in the same order, listening to the same repetitive depressing news reports while eating the same breakfast, leaving the house at the same time only to have to rush the same route to work managing to almost be late to work every single morning. Even when we get home from work we have the choice of what to cook taken away from us by a Just Eat advert, all so we can continue to sit numb in front of our hypno screens watching others live their lives thinking, one day I’ll…. Looking back over your day you could count on one hand how many decisions you really

We live in a world where we allow outside factors determine our choices, our mood, our ideas, our thoughts then tell us what to do, how and when to do it…

are aware of making, the biggest one of those is probably what to watch on Netflix? We only really take notice of a decision when we have an obstruction put in front of us forcing us to take an unfamiliar path. Maybe it is the fear of making the wrong choice that stifles us from making any new choices so we stick to the ones we know because we know it’s safe.This creates restrictions of our freedom by forcing us to live within a little box of comfort and safety never trying anything new.

Freedom has many forms two of these are negative freedom which consists of an external power having control over your life and positive freedom which is our own internal power to control our own life choices.

Personally, I have found that having my negative freedom taken away as in terms of being sent to prison has helped me with my positive freedom. By having restrictions forced on my life with less distractions, no mobile phone, not able to sit drinking every night or sit with that same circle of friends, I have had the chance to let my logical voice take control of my head and my positive freedom has benefited, using my time to read, study, write, listen and learn which has led to more doors opening creating more freedom within my life in the long run.

So how many people are ever really free? Free from money, debt, anxiety, depression, addiction, temptation?

There are many forms of freedom just as there are many forms of prisons and prisoners, we can be prisoner to fear, prisoner to our phone which takes us miles away from loved ones that are sitting two feet away, prisoners to routine, prisoners to our own mind creating situations that will never even happen, prisoners to choice. Why do we want one thing but go do another? Why do we let one voice in our head rule the other? We know one makes logical sense wanting to help us live up to our full potential and the other wants instant gratification keeping us trapped within the hamster wheel.The voice that wants instant gratification verses the voice that wants to make us everything we can be.

We live in a world where we allow outside factors determine our choices, our mood, our ideas, our thoughts then tell us what to do, how and when to do it, it shows us what we don’t have making us unappreciative and left feeling that what we have is never enough, the grass is always greener, we always want more but in truth all that really matters is our time and how we spend our time doing things we love with the ones we love.

How many people would do things the same? Knowing that being more aware of our choices and making the disciplined decisions can give us more freedom within this world. The scary thing is I think most would do it all the same again because most people don’t know what they want without being told.

Anon, Magilligan Prison

Pelé

On an August afternoon in 1958 Mrs. Ryle called me over. I had been kicking a lonely ball around the road.The rest of the lads had gone swimming, but my protective mother ruled that my summer cold would not benefit from the sea air.The Ryles were the owners of the only television in the neighbourhood, which proclaimed itself by an extremely large aerial clinging perilously to the chimney.

She started by saying,‘You like football, Peter’, my heart sank. My first thought was that she must have found out about the ball that had gone into her back garden, knocking petals off the rosebush. But she continued:‘There’s a soccer competition going on at the moment, isn’t there? If you’d like to see a match, you can call in this evening.’

A soccer competition? It was the World Cup in Sweden, and Northern Ireland were playing .That evening, I knocked on the door and was brought into the front room. Mrs. Ryle perched me on a stool in front of a twelveinch television set and a whole new world opened up to me. I knew the names of the players from Wales, Ireland, and England but had never heard of the players from South America and the remoter parts of Europe. Every match day from then on, at seven o’clock, Mr. and Mrs. Ryle would move from the front room to the back, and I would sit on a stool and discover world football.

My mother repeatedly asked me if I was sure they did not mind. I assured her that they

said I could come whenever I liked.What in fact Mrs. Ryle said to me each evening when I thanked her was,‘you’re very welcome.’ To my twelve-year-old mind, that was a continuous invitation.

The North, captained by Danny Blanchflower, did well, reaching the quarter finals, but my attention was fixed on the exotics: Uruguay, Argentina, and especially Brazil. It seemed as if each Brazilian players had only one name:Vava, Didi, Garrincha, and a seventeen-year-old called Pelé.

The old man cried but his son, the nine-year-old boy, Edson, now Pele, promised he would win a cup for him.

Edson Arantes de Nascimento was the son of a goal-scoring father whose football career was cut short by injury, when Brazil lost the 1950 World Cup final to Uruguay.The old man cried but his son, the nine-year-old boy, Edson, now Pelé, promised he would win a cup for him. His career in his home club Santos began at fifteen, and soon the tall, leggy forward was scoring goals for fun.At seventeen he was brought into the Brazilian squad for the World Cup in Sweden. He scored the winner against Wales in the quarter final and a hat-trick in the semi against France. In the final he scored twice more over the hosts, Sweden.The first, trapping the ball on his chest, audaciously flicking it over the head of a defender before volleying into the net.

The Editorial Team found it interesting to see a creative interpretation of this category as a kind of memoir of the importance of sport.

In 1962, the tournament returned to South America, to Chile. Pelé scored a hat-trick for Santos against Benfica in the Intercontinental Final, and Brazil were hot favourites for the World Cup. In the first match against Mexico, Pelé was brilliant beating six defenders to score the opening goal. Unfortunately, he sustained a groin injury in the second match and was out for the remainder of the tournament, which Brazil won.

The 1966 tournament was held in England. Pelé came in for some particular attention and was injured in the first game against Bulgaria. He returned for the third match against Portugal. It is not unfair to say that he was kicked off the pitch in this game. His man marker, Morais, kicked and chopped him in a way that would earn a red card and a lengthy suspension today. Brazil exited the competition in which England defeated West Germany in the Final. Pelé declared he would never play in another World Cup, but continued to play for his club, Santos.

However, in 1970, under the cajoling of manager, Mario Zagallo, he again put on the Brazilian jersey in what was to be the greatest World Cup. It was the first to be transmitted by satellite and the first that was seen in colour.The yellow Brazilian jersey seemed to shimmer in the Mexican sun. While it was Pele’s cup, the competition produced a wonderful game between East and West. For Pelé many of his moments in ‘70 were audacious plays which almost came off: a chip from fifty yards over the head of the floundering Czech keeper, which grazed the post before going wide; a dummy over the ball, then circumventing the Uruguayan goalie before pushing the ball narrowly passed the post; his magnificent leap and powerful header, which Gordon Banks in the English goal managed miraculously to flip over the bar. Pelé stood in amazement and then shook Banks’ hand.After that game, which Brazil won 1-0, Pelé exchanged shirts with Bobby Moore, the English captain.

The 1970 final vs. Italy was a Pelé tour de force He scored the first goal with a header. He was only five foot eight but his leap above defenders and the power of his headers made him lethal from crosses.After Italy equalised, Brazil hit back with goals from Gerson and Jairzinho: the first the result of slick interpassing, the second made by Pelé heading across goal to the unmarked Jairzinho.With five minutes to go, Rlvelino cut down the left and squared it to Pelé.As defenders froze Pelé caressed the ball with the nonchalance of a man waiting for a bus which he knows will arrive.When it came in the shape of captain Cartos Alberto, Pelé rolled the ball into his path. In full stride the captain drove it into the net. Brazil 4, Italy 1.The beautiful game was reborn. Comparisons between greats from different eras are purely academic. Maradona was a force of nature with power and skill. Messi is an artist of deception. Pelé was everything, a god among mortals and a creator of beauty.

Thank you, Mrs. Ryle, and Pelé, for opening my eyes to the beautiful game.

Anon, Midlands Prison

1. ABSTRACT COMPOSITION, Acrylics, Anon,Arbour Hill Prison

2. BIRDS, Mized Media, Group Project, Wheatfield Prison and CUT OUT BIRDS, Mixed Media on Recycled Materials, Anon,Training Unit, Mountjoy Prison, on exhibiton in Alternative Ways of Seeing

Horticulture, Green Fingers

and Prison Life

You can find yourself inside, for a whole host of reasons. Once in, the walls and doors are an everpresent reminder of the restricted living. The longer one walks these walls and doors they sort of melt into the background, become your friend, salvation, a big hug, retreat, hermitage, and some find themselves spiritually, some become translucent in colour never seeing sunlight over their stay. ‘You would love it, digging lazy beds, planting vegetables, being out in the long grass under the sun.You can get a level 5 certificate in horticulture too’.

My friend was describing his now five days a week job doing horticulture, selling it hard.‘Yes’, but I was listening hard. I was just back from Cloverhill and my mind and body where fried, like a

battered Mars bar. I needed sunlight even the winter sun (it’s November), I need fresh air, space, sky blue.

Horticulture had been on before but sporadic and I had an inside job that provides me with daily work. Sure a risk but a risk worth talking, I hoped that the prison would keep horticulture open twice daily, five days a week.

Ever dig a lazy bed? No, well there is nothing lazy about digging one, two, three, four, or five! Getting gym fit is one thing but shovel fit is another ball game! Oh the back, oh the legs.

Nature

The theme of nature came through strongest in the visual art in this issue of the magazine, but we are delighted to publish the piece below which demonstrates how a connection to nature can have a therapeutic dimension similar to art.

At the end of the day though you have a proud mound of earth (looking like you have just buried a giant) composted and mulched ready for planting potatoes, onions, garlic, board beans.The projects have started raspberries, gooseberries, rhubarb (fruit garden). Roses, daffodils, perennial flowers (flower garden). Long grass (winter food for our declining finches). The good work also extends to philanthropy.The horticulture team of

29 prisoners have just completed repotting 10,000 shamrocks for St. Patrick’s Day that will be given to charities to sell. I see the Winter sunset, the snow that flurries down, the birds in the blue sky, the green shoots that grow.

Life here can be fertile. One just never knows.

Anon, Castlerea Prison

End Game

LightsUp: Two men, JOHNandDRAGAN sit on the floor of a sparse, dimly lit room.They face each other over a chessboard that is set up on a stool.

JOHN: Yousureyou’reokaywiththis?

DRAGAN: Chess?Poker?Flipofcoin?Whocares?Chess–yourdecision–butyou knowrules,yes?

JOHN: What,ofchess…ortheconsequences?

DRAGAN: Chess.Both.

JOHN: Well…sortof…Iguess.

DRAGAN: Sortof?LookJohn,thisisnot…howyousay…’dressrehearsal’yes?

JOHN: Don’tworryaboutme.IjustmeantthatIknowtherulesenoughtoknowif you’lltrytocheat.

DRAGAN: IDON’Tcheat.

JOHN: That’sanotherlie.That’swhyIchosechess…I’veseenhowyou’playcards’ and‘don’t’cheat.

(DARGAN attempts to argue but John raises a hand in a gesture both men understand)

JOHN: Iknowthatchessisaseriousgametoyou,sure,it’sanationalsportinyour countrybutbethatasitmay…it’stheonlycheat-proofgameIknow.

DRAGAN: Whatever.Youreadyorwhat?

JOHN: Ready.Youwonthetoss–SHOCK!–soyouchosewhite…overtoyou.

DRAGAN: E4.Lookslikeyou’restillfollowingmylead…Notsmart.

JOHN: (Beat) E5. Gettingmixedupinyournonsense,thatwasn’tsmart.

DRAGAN: Hmmm…Knight,F3.CarefulJohn,I’malreadyhuntingyourlittlePawn!You cannotaffordtomakeanymorebadmoves...likelife,eh? (laughs)

JOHN: (Beat) D6.Thanksforthe‘concern’butIguessmyPawnissafefornow.Hey, youwanttoknowwhyIchosethisgame?

DRAGAN: (Sighs) BishoptoC4.Don’tcare.

JOHN: (Studies Board) KnighttoC6.Becauseallofthepiecesarethere (points) right infrontofyouontheboard.Nothingishidden.Nosneakyacesupyour sleeveordodgydealingfromthebottomofthedeck.It’safaircontestand thebestmanwins.

DRAGAN: KnighttoC3.ThisisaperfectripostetoyoursloppyPhilidorDefence.Seems likeyouknowalittlemoreofthisgamethanyouleton…butisitenough?

JOHN: (Pauses. Rattled) Bishop.G4.

DRAGAN: What?Nomoreinsults?Youdidn’tthinkI’dknowPhilidorwhenIsawit?H3.

JOHN: Isn’tthatalittlebitamateurish,chasingmyBishop?Easyescape,H5.Your move.

DRAGAN: We’llsee.Whydidyouleavemoneyinthecar?Youknewthey’dfinditthere. Amateur.

JOHN: Yourmove.

DRAGAN: Didyouwantustogetcaught?Wasthatyourplan?Yourwayout?Likeyour Philidor,youdidn’tthinkI’drecogniseit?

JOHN: Yourmove.

DRAGAN: KnighttakesyourE5Pawn.Inevertrustedyou.Knowwhy?

JOHN: Becauseyoudon’tlisten.Itoldyouthatwewerebeingfollowedthatnight, butyouignoredme.Youdidn’tseethebiggerpicture.Imean,justlookatthe piecesontheboard!YourKnightisexposedandhewasprotectingyour Queen!Bishoptakes,onD1!

DRAGAN: BecauseyouaregreedyJohnbutworse,impulsive.Youlookatmelikeyou smartestmaninroombecauseyoutakemyQueen.Iwantedyoutotake her!F.7.CHECK!

JOHN: (Chuckles)Typicalmoveforadrug-lord!Toohighonyourownproducttosee thewoodfromthetrees,KingtoE7.You’regoingtoloseDragan… everything!

DRAGAN: Biggerpicture,John.Icontrolboardlikelife.KnighttoD5.Check.And.Mate.

The Editorial Team wished to highlight this writing genre. The selected piece could stand as a short film, a theatre piece, or even as a radio drama with some adaptations. It was submitted as a “tiny play” and the Editorial Team enjoyed the dialogue between the two characters that builds up to the twist at the end, all through the narrative of a chess game. 1

(JOHN looks at the board in disbelief, shaking his head. Stunned.)

DRAGAN: Hey–loser–youbetterhonouragreement!

JOHN: (Whispering) How…how did you…I will.You win.You always win.What was I thinking, playing you in chess…at anything!You rape, you steal, you peddle class-A narcotics, ruining thousands of lives, murdering…how many?

DRAGAN: Yeah, yeah, Dragan bold man. Boo-Hoo for Johnny. Now. Call cops.This is all you. Say you don’t know me.Then do time, and live. Never see me again.Yes?

JOHN: You were never going down for this, were you?

DRAGAN: (Laughing) No!

JOHN: What if I’d won?

DRAGAN: You still take fall… or... I kill family.You, little boy in man’s world.

JOHN: Jesus!

DRAGAN: Many lives, Johnny... Dragan take many Pawns like you…

JOHN: Scumbag!

DRAGAN: Boo. Hoo.

JOHN: (Into his shirt) Get all that?

(JOHN exposes the wire as two armed Cops burst intov the room, guns pointed at DRAGAN’s head.)

DRAGAN: You…RAT ON DRAGAN???? DEAD MAN!!

JOHN: Hey Dragan…Your move… FADE OUT

Anon, Midlands Prison 2

1. FOUR SEASONS: WINTER (Cropped), Acrylic on Canvas, Anon, Shannon Clinic

2. FACES AND FIGURES, Mixed Media on Board, Anon, Pathways Centre

3. CERAMIC HEADS, Sculpture, Group Project from an Artists in Prisons Workshop with Sculptor Jackie McKenna, Loughan House Open Prison

All In or Fold

It started when I was really young. My friend and I went to a local seaside town one day and into an amusement arcade. He played the slot machines and I watched for a while. He was winning money, and out of curiosity I inserted £1 into one of the machines. I won £5. I thought it was brilliant. When you have £5, at a young age, you feel like you have lots of money. I thought flip, this is an easy way to make money but in reality it was beginner’s luck, and that day onwards was the start of a long and slippery road. I got pocket money from my parents and grandparents and would go straight to the amusements to gamble.This kept me content for a few years. I felt down when the money ran out but there was no urge yet to commit crime to get more, but then I started secondary school. I was twelve years old and already the gambling had been going on for a few years. I started to hang around with guys older than me and on the way home from school they went into shops and stole stuff. At the start I hesitated on following suit, I was scared of getting caught but it wasn’t long before I saw it as an opportunity to make money to feed my gambling habit. I went into town every day and stole stuff of value: expensive aftershave and perfumes, Gillette Mac 3 razor blades, Xbox 360 and PS2 games,Waterford crystal and gold jewellery. I was making hundreds of pounds every day to gamble. I gambled at least £3500 every week at twelve years old.This kept me content for a while then I craved more. Along with continuing to steal, I started to commit burglaries. I targeted business premises. I would usually gain cash or laptops. I broke in wearing no gloves to cover my tracks as I didn’t care about getting caught.The only thing that mattered was getting money to gamble. It wasn’t long until the police caught up with me and I started to make court appearances literally every week, sometimes even twice! For a while the judge was lenient, but my luck ran out and he finally sent me to aYoung Offender’s Centre (YOC).

When released I was eighteen years old and thought I’d matured but I went straight back to gambling. Given my age, I was now entitled to benefits. I got £140 every fortnight. My giro arrived on a Thursday, I was up early that morning, peeking out the window, trying to spot the postman, to get the giro, cash it at the post office, and head to the bookies or amusements and gamble the money. Some days the money lasted a few hours or less, it wasn’t about winning or losing, it was the buzz and excitement when gambling, I

was in my element and nothing else mattered. After losing my giro money, I started craving more money to gamble. I got loans off my family and when my giro came I now owed it all out.Then I made excuses, saying I’ll pay you next time, or here’s a tenner for now. I was back in a vicious circle but determined not to turn to crime again to fund my habit. I didn’t want to go back to jail. I didn’t want to let my parents down anymore, plus this time, it would be the big boys’ jail.

I was back in a vicious circle but determined not to turn to crime again to fund my habit.

The circle continued for a few months, then I met a girl and the gambling more or less stopped. I was only doing the odd bet now and again.Things continued for a few years, then I started going back to the amusements. At first I would spend a few hours in the arcade, but this didn’t last long before the cravings got worse. In no time, I was back in the amusement arcade 9am until midnight every night of the week.

I managed to stay away from crime to fund this, but was getting a loan of money from anyone I could.There was even one time I won £6000 on a horse bet and blew it all in less than a week! Things got out of hand again. Ultimately, gambling led me into a life of turmoil, I lost my freedom by going to prison, I lost my partner by being selfish, I hurt my parents and wider family circle and gained a reputation as a thief.

Memoir

The Memoir section is always one which the Editorial Team looks forward to selecting and this year is no different. There is some crossover of themes –gambling and addiction – which appear in other sections yet we also see the importance of place – a butcher’s shop in an urban setting, a pastoral countryside –in the variety of writing.

Anon, Magilligan Prison

Jack

Thump! The stone water bottle hits the floor, the crashing sound is enough to wake everybody in the house.Why does he do it? Kicking out, my sleeping partner regularly pushes the bottle out of the bed. He is ten years old, tall

and awkward in his movements.The stone bottle is cream in colour, a hot water holder, it is a relic of the past. It belonged to my grandmother who was snoring loudly in the double bed on the other side of the bedroom. She moved in with us soon after my grandfather died. Not particularly old, she had suffered from ill health so my mother decided she should come and live with us and use the double bed myself and my twin brother had used since we were four.

‘Boys, do you have to make so much noise!’ she grumbled.

‘It was him,’ I moaned.

Grandma was always grumpy, so it was no surprise when she shouted,‘it’s Saturday, it’s too early to be out of bed.’

Losing our bed was a big deal, we were decamped into a foldup in the corner of the same cramped room, it had to be folded into a cabinet every morning.

It was not long before the gentle purring started again, then a snort, then full blown snoring. She was out for the count.A signal for Sam to stir from under the bedclothes. Like a badger nervously exiting his set, slowly my twin rises from his sleep. His first action is to ‘Huh’ his breath. Like a dragon breathing fire, his breath condensed by the cold air.Within seconds he is back into his warm lair.

Last evening, we were treated to the dancing green of the Northern lights.The spectacle was performed on the stage of the northern horizon. Impressively it lasted for nearly 30 minutes.The sky was clear showing off its recognisable constellations; Orion’s Belt, the Plough, the Great Bear. Occasionally there had been flashes of satellites as they pass through the darkness, circumnavigating the globe.The view from our bedroom window had been so crystal clear.

Wrapped in my thick woollen dressing gown, pyjamas and bed socks I slowly drag myself

out of the warm bed. How cold was it?

Quickly I run to the window to see. Hoping for snow I excitedly open the thick lined curtains, a blast of freezing cold air hits my warm face. I take a second to look at what is in front of me.Wow. I am confronted with a window that has changed from transparent to opaque.The glass is a picture of ice shapes that have been constructed by the frost.The ice is on the inside of the glass, no wonder my brother is still under the warm bedclothes.The shapes the frost has created are amazing, many are symmetrical as though they have been drawn to a mathematical formula. How can nature create such a mosaic, a kaleidoscope of frozen art?

Temptation has the better of me, I had to touch it, first with my finger, it melts a small print shape on the ice scape.Then with the tip of my nose …. Freezing! Then my lips, they stick momentarily to the glass, eventually released there is a mouth shape in the frozen glass. My warm breath quickly melts the ice into globules of water.The melted ice reveals a picture of my father’s precious vegetable patch.Winter greens now stand frozen, their tops dusted with a mixture of snow and frost, like crystal sugar statues.The ground is rock solid, at this time of year the frost will penetrate six or seven inches into the soil. Dad will curse when it comes to trying to dig vegetables for Sunday dinner. Oh! And Mum has left the wet clothes on the washing line.The impact the freezing temperature has had on the line of clothes is startling – each item is solid, frozen stiff, they hang in the stillness of the morning like cardboard cut outs of our wardrobe contents. Shirts, jumpers and trousers stiff and lifeless, each punctuated by bunches of bacon rind, a treat for wintering birds as they search for much needed sustenance.

The sun is rising in the east.Today the white frost will disappear in the relative warmth of the winter sun…

At last, my twin brother joins me, bleary eyed he pushes me to one side and presses

his hand against the window. The ice melts. The sun is rising in the east. Today the white frost will disappear in the relative warmth of the winter sun, where shade remains the white will linger further penetrating the ground.The clothes on the line will reform into their natural state, they will not dry!

Tonight, Jack will return, his work of art will start again.

Anon, Midlands Prison

Days on the Dargle River

When innocence and adventure was streaming through my veins. When locks of my curls sat on my head, when I ran across the road without looking, and used the rubber on the outside of my boot runners as a brake for my back tire, on my purple 2-seater Raleigh chopper. There was this sense of solace, freedom and safety that I had, when I was wading through the river at McDonalds house, just adjacent to the people’s park in Bray. It was the Dargle river, and it was my community, it was a river that fed 100s of families for generations. It was a place that came alive at night, with dozens of all the top anglers, poachers, lampers, damners, snatchers and spinners.

Men who would gather in their droves to make money and dodge the law and bailiffs

in the dead of night when most where sound asleep.

But during the day it was mine and my friends, eyes squinted from the reflection of the sun off the water and onto my face, where the start of the crows’ feet grow that are visible around my eyes today.

Tender years and soft skin couldn’t stop mother nature and her effects on the way I frowned as I battled to see any movement beneath the water that wrapped around my legs, like a plaster-cast around someone who’s broken an arm.Warm and everything felt right and perfectly fitted, wearing Connolly shoe shop cheap black plim soles, my feet moulded into and onto every stone I walked over, like a snow rabbit in Alaska, a total chameleon, everything became one, My feet were the snow rabbit. Hours and hours were spent there through the summer months. Only two items where needed for the challenge, a large bucket and an onion sack connected to a circular wire and a stick.The net was the garda, and the bucket was the jail.

We would have competitions on how much we caught, the brightest colour fish, and the biggest, who had the biggest conger eel, how many sand-dabs we caught, you got bonus points for them.A plaice was a gold star as they were so hard to catch, bragging rights for catching a plaice would go on for weeks. Lunch consisted of a packet of Chickadees which stuck between every possible tooth, a few Stinger Bars, and a sugar sambo.We knelt and drank the water when thirsty just as you would drink from the tap at home. Bull rushes, hog weeds, nettles were our forested jungle along the riverbanks, behind in the distance was the towering magnificent big Sugar Loaf, that came over us like a giant giving you a harmless hug, it was ever present and what a sight. And off in the direction of the sea was the iconic Dargle bridge which had three arches. Continued overleaf…

1.

2.

TRIPTYCH

3.

RONG THE DRAGON, Ceramic, Anon, Maghaberry Prison

PAST PRESENT FUTURE

, Acrylic on Canvas, Anon, Magilligan Prison

ᏗᎦᏌᏬᏍᏗ (TEARS), Acrylic on Canvas, Anon, Maghaberry Prison

To venture down there was to let the town you were in the river as the world and its mother could see you, even if only stopping to view a crane resting on a rock fishing or to try spot a school of salmon, or gaggle of geese rooting through the bull rushes. People stopped like a pull of a magnet, our river had that effect on people who loved our town, it was awe inspiring. If we were seen down that far be assured my ma and nanny would know, we spent so long in the water our feet looked like soldiers who were suffering from a bad case of trench foot, but to honest we couldn’t have cared if the foot was hanging off, because we owned the river and were the custodians of it, we had the keys to the castle.

We were the water; the river was our quilt! We were the trees hanging over the wall that gave us shade, while dropping conkers plopped into the water endlessly.We were the kingfisher hawking everything, we were the river rat scurrying at first sight of humans.We were the galvanise we lifted slowly for sand dabs with one hand, net in the other. The river was my sea, my Butlins, my summer camp, it was my best friend, it minded me, gave me peace, it fulfilled me, it gave and it took. I dreamt of it and convinced myself it dreamt of me, I waved goodbye to it as I shivered climbing back over the wall and onto my Raleigh chopper bike, carrying my net in one hand and bucket hanging over the handlebar.The river is inaccessible now, no grips to climb down the wall, the river deepened and widened, its not the same, but still will always be viewed as our happy place forever, loved always as it’s our DNA.

Anon, Progression Unit, Mountjoy Prison

The Brother

Ihave my brother to thank for my love of music. At 5 and ½ years my senior, the age gap meant we were never really close until we got older. He for me growing up was the older grumpy brother and well I was the pain in the ass, that never stopped talking nor asking silly questions. That aside, I always adored and looked up to him as my protector, always loving when he called me kid, a pet name he funnily enough still refers to me as today.

Eyes closed and moving from side to side in rock God movements picked up from my brother, I played air base, while singing ‘dun, dun, duuuun, dun, dun, duuuun… 1

riff from “Walking on the Moon” by The Police. Eyes closed and moving from side to side in rock God movements picked up from my brother, I played air bass, while singing ‘dun, dun, duuuun, dun, dun, duuuun, Giant steps are what you take, walking on the moon’. This performance lasted about three minutes, even with an impersonation of Stewart Copeland’s high hats bits from the song, all performed with my eyes closed. Once finished, I looked in amusement at the shocked looks on my classmates faces. My teacher liked it and I had a blast and that’s all that mattered to me.

Growing up in Cork in the 1970s, myself and my brother Jim shared a bedroom until he hit his mid-teens. When I say it was like the collision of two different worlds in the same room, then that would be far from an exaggeration. Me into Star Wars and teddy bears, my brother into football and music. Adorned on his wall next to his bed was a huge poster of Blondie, which he used to kiss goodnight at the end of every day. For a young 6 year old who was more interested in DarthVader and Luke Skywalker, the idea that someone would kiss a giant face on a poster on a wall in Cork was simply silly. I’d of course find out in later years, that it was perfectly acceptable behaviour for a teenager battling with hormones and an ever increasing interest in the opposite sex. My brother’s record player took pride of place in our room and it wasn’t unusual for me to be lost in my world of Star Wars, whilst humming along to the Regatta de Blanc album by The Police that my brother had blaring in the room. Joe Jackson, Dire Straits, Led Zeppelin, Elvis Presley, Genesis and John Cougar Mellencamp were among some of the artists whose albums I knew back to back from a very young age. I remember my second class Christmas party in school and we were asked by our teacher, whose name escapes me, to prepare a song to sing in front of the class. Most guys came up with songs we’d learnt in school, but much to my classmates’ horror and teachers’ bemusement, I started off with the opening bass

Radio Luxembourg and the emergence of pirate radio was another thing that was introduced to me by my brother. The Top 40 countdown on The Great 208 was something we’d listen to on a Sunday night, when my brother would tape his favourite hits from the wireless. During the week when he was out doing important teenage stuff, I’d play those tapes, write down the words of the songs and learn them so I could impress him and his friends when they were around at ours. You have to remember that in the 70s and 80s recording songs from the radio was our way of downloading our favourite tracks. Another way of listening to music was the weekly TV show,Top of the Pops (TOTP). Not only did we hear the songs of the day on that show, but we also got to see our favourite stars perform in studio or watch their latest videos. I was hooked. I remember being amazed that Tracy Ullman sounded so great whilst singing into a hairbrush, much like the one I used in my room.

A funny memory from when I was really young was an obsession I had with people’s heights that I saw on the telly. Now every Thursday when TOTP came on, my brother had a small tape recorder next to the TV to record some latest tune by Big Country, UB40 or The Tourists, so silence was demanded while this process was undertaken. Of course if you were to listen back now to those recordings, then plenty are filled with my little voice coming in just as the band hit the chorus, asking ‘Jim, how tall do you think he is, is he bigger than you’, followed by the angriest shush you will ever hear.

Of course I grew into a teenager myself, fully understanding the importance of posters on the wall. My obsession with Madonna in the 80s and how one day she’d fall for a guy from Cork, reading album covers front to back and studying the lyrics. My brother wasn’t mental at all, he was my hero, who set me well along the way on my journey into music. A journey that has taken up almost 40 years of my life. Writing and creating music with some of the most talented people I’ve ever met, and later on into management, helping others live their dreams.

Thanks bro, I love ya kid.

Anon, Portlaoise Prison

1. EXERCISE YARD, Acrylics

2.

on board, Anon,Cloverhill Remand Prison, seen in the Giving Something Back exhibition for schools.

GORILLA, Acrylics, Anon, Dochas Women’s Centre, Mountjoy Prison

Hope

As a young lad I always enjoyed fitness. I played hurling for Greystones, and I was pretty handy at the soccer. I went to a primary school for Travellers, and I had a very nice and kind teacher.

I started having problems at the age of twelve. I lived with my grandmother, my mother’s mother and she passed away when I was twelve. I was very close to my grandmother and couldn’t cope with the sadness when she died so I started drinking and getting into trouble.

I would recommend running for anyone who needs help with their mental health. It is great to feel the fresh air and rain on your face.

I got thrown out of secondary school in first year, I only lasted a week. I spent my teenage years going down wrong roads. This landed me in different institutions for young offenders and rehabilitation centres. I believe the devil is in the drink as it has been the cause of my countless convictions. I turned to heavy drinking when my mother passed away. I was locked up in England at that time and it was very hard as my mother was everything to me.

When I returned to Ireland, I found fitness again in Cloverhill prison, where I would run on the treadmill in the gym. I found it helped me to cope with my sadness and depression. I got stronger emotionally and physically and I kept at the treadmill when I was transferred to the Midlands prison.

Since coming to Shelton Abbey, I love to run outside in the lovely grounds. It releases my stress, stops me from over thinking and helps me sleep at night. It also improves my humour and helps me to cope with the ups and downs.

I would recommend running for anyone who needs help with their mental health. It is great to feel the fresh air and rain on your face. If you can, buy a pair of good running shoes and start running. Before you know it will up your mental strength and your fitness. Running has also helped me to give something back, I have been involved in running for charity. Last summer I ran for Pieta House as part of a team in Shelton Abbey. I plan to do a charity run early next year for Talk to Tom. These charities are for suicide and mental health.This is very important to me as a lot of people from the Travelling Community struggle with mental health and the suicide rate in young travellers is high.

Anon, Shelton Abbey Open Prison

The Real Butcher Boy

Imust have been about 16 or 17 and learning to become a butcher. On this particular day I was cutting pork chops on the butcher’s block. It was a wooden block.There was meat hanging from a bar

of railings with hooks from which the meat hung.

Next thing, I heard someone crying. I looked around and there was a woman I’d seen before in the butchers standing at the counter. She was a well-dressed woman, respectful, but strangely, she was crying.

I turned to her and said,‘Are you alright, there, love?’

She replied,‘I’m sick of it!’ And sniffled and continued to cry. She spoke again. ‘I don’t know what to get him.’

And said I,‘is it your husband, or is it your son?’

She sniffled again and then said,‘No, it’s the fecking dog.’

I didn’t know which way to look at her. She ended up buying a 5lb lump of roast beef. For the dog!

A week later, as I was heading into work, I saw the lady, with the dog.Well, if you’d seen the size of the dog. It was a little schnitzel of a dog.A black and tan fella with its head up high, you’d nearly stand on it, it was that small. I never laughed so much. It really brightened up my day.

Anon, Portlaoise Prison

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Memoir

1.BIRDS SERIES, Pencil Drawings, Anon, Pathways Centre

UNTITLED, Stained and Fused Glass Panels, Various Artists, Dochas Women’s Centre, exhibited in Alternative Ways of Seeing at Rua Red

TRUCK AND CARAVAN, Model Making with Lollipops, Anon, Castlerea Prison

Reci e

Creative writing comes in many shapes and forms and cookery is a significant category in publishing. We hope the writing has whet your appetite; here is a meal to go with it!

Beef and Vegetable Stir Fry with Rice

Icooked this for my short order cooking exam, QQI Level 4. It tastes very nice.Also it is healthy as there are lots of vegetables and lean meat in this dish.You could also use wholemeal brown noodles to make it a high fibre, healthier dish.This dish was also easily prepared and very fast to cook. It also serves four people. I really enjoyed cooking this dish and I will cook this dish again as it is very tasty.

Ingredients:

750g striploin beef – in strips and marinated.

4 tablespoons of vegetable oil.

1 onion – sliced.

4 cloves of garlic – chopped.

1 carrot – in strips.

1 stalk of celery – in diagonal strips.

5cm root ginger – peeled and grated.

1 teaspoon of Chinese five spice powder.

½ red pepper – in strips.

½ green pepper – in strips.

125g mushrooms – sliced.

2 – 4 teaspoons sesame oil.

400g rice.

Sauce:

4 tablespoons of soy sauce.

1 tablespoon cornflour.

300ml beef stock (use one beef stock cube).

Garnish: Parsley sprigs.

Method:

1. Weigh ingredients. Collect equipment.Wash the vegetables.

2. Marinade sauce: mix soy sauce and cornflour in a bowl.Whisk together until fully blended. Pour into a small pot.Add beef stock.Whisk on a medium heat until the sauce bubbles and then set aside.

3. Cut the meat into strips. Mix it with the marinade sauce and cover.

4. Slice the onion, chop the garlic and cut carrot into strips. Cut celery into diagonal strips. Peel and grate ginger using the large holes of the grater. Cut peppers into strips. Slice mushrooms. Cut a sprig of parsley.

5. Heat the oven to 65 degrees Celsius.

6. Fill a pot to ¾ with boiling water, whisk two vegetable stock cubes into it and bring to the boil.Add the rice. Stir and boil for 11 minutes.

7. Heat oil on a pan until it smokes.Add one-third of the meat and fry until sealed but not cooked. Remove, then fry the remaining meat in two batches.

8. Add and heat more oil. Stir fry the onion, garlic, carrot, celery, root ginger and five spice powder on a medium heat for 3 –5 minutes.

9. Add the sliced peppers and mushrooms. Stir fry for 3 – 5 minutes.

10. Drain the rice when it is cooked. Put it into a greased casserole dish. Put rice into the oven to keep it warm.

11. Add the beef, the sauce and the sesame oil to the pan of vegetables. Simmer for 2 – 3 minutes.

12. Serve with rice and garnish with parsley sprigs.

Anon, Portlaoise

1. BIRD ON A BRANCH, GlazedTile, Anon,Arbour Hill Prison

Listowel Winners

I go back beyond the old man

Mind and body broken

To find the unbroken man.

The Devil in His Life

Short Story Advanced

Itake a knife out of the drawer, feeling out the weight of the handle, glancing at my distorted reflection swimming in the chrome surface of its 5-inch blade. Shaking, I slam the drawer back, sending the cutlery inside jangling and clanking. My heart throbbing, I cautiously glance behind my shoulder, instantly feeling stupid because I know I’m alone in the house.

For now, I think, I open the drawer, place the knife back and walk off, my head is like a metal bin pounded by a pipe. I sit at the table and cross my arms trying to stop quivering while I tell myself, through the fog of incoherent thoughts, tell myself that I can’t do that to James.

I find myself back at the drawer. I’m somewhat lost; how did I get here? I’m breathing heavily as my hand squeezes the knife and I’m mumbling to myself that, that, what?

I’m appalled at my thoughts like acid, I’m appalled and I decide, James is right to beat me. Of course, he is, I’m the ballast that drags him down, the reason why he drinks. He’d leave me but I’m too pitiful of a creature to survive without him, and I…And I realize that unconsciously, I’m walking into the sunroom, knife tight in my hand.

He took a chance on me, out of absolute pity and now, where did that get him?

I thump onto the sofa and, without looking or acknowledging the fact, pretending it’s not happening in a sense, I hide the knife under the pillow. My eyes are glued to the clock, to its little black hand that’s ticking, quite loudly, and I’m invigorated by this tick while I stare at the numbers where black hands point, trying to make sense of it, as if some puzzle is concealed deep within those nonsensical symbols, some puzzle that decides it all. My brain is frazzled. I can’t comprehend what the clock says because my attention is incinerated by the thoughts of doing that to James.

Doing that, to my husband.

Creative writing competitions are a longstanding characteristic of Ireland’s literary history. The Listowel Writers’ Week, Ireland’s oldest such festival, offers prison writers a rare chance to enter their work. Short stories and poetry are a staple of prison writing and, as such, we often see high quality work as a result. This year saw 240 entires from 130 writers and All In sends their fondest appreciation to all those contributors, and those who mentor and foster their abilities, for their wonderful contributions to the world of Irish Literature. All In has chosen to feature the first place winners in all categories but our congratulations extend to all winners who each receive a classic Cross Pen, with some also receiving a monetary prize.

batter me, how could he not? And I dare to think, to think of that!

But Melissa, I remember, or tell myself, feeling lost, unable to string thoughts. Melissa, I decided something but I’m not quite sure what it was.When I find myself back at the sink, I’m shocked by the lapse in my memory. I try to glue it all together, not knowing what there is to glue. I understand of course that I came to get something but I have no clue what, the more I try to remember the more my mind blanks.

I see the open drawer and gasp as it all comes back to me, my hands shaking violently, I take out a knife and stick it behind my back.The kiss of cold steel on my bare skin sent shivers up my spine.Then, I walk back to the sunroom and smell the acrid vomit, I instantly rush back to the kitchen, telling myself that I didn’t forget, I didn’t, and I just… I’m not losing my mind; I tell myself while I wash my hands that aren’t dirty. I unconsciously slide the wedding ring off my finger and stick it into my jeans. I soak a rag in warm water and detergent that smells

Nausea jets the contents of my stomach up like the foulest fountain and I vomit all over our Persian rug. I gag and let it fly, hot tears stinging my eyes. My chest is lead and at the sight of the mess I made, panic squeezes me and I shriek.

It is the moment before the dance begins, - Brendan Kennelly (extract from ‘I see you dancing, Father’) 1

James’s favourite rug and I…How could I? How could I think of…James, he’s right to

repellently pungent.With a bucket of hot water in one hand and a rag in the other, I run back to the sunroom and drop to my knees, start scrubbing the floor like a maniac. The knife behind my back is in the way, I take it out to place it on the sofa and shriek at the gleam of another knife under the pillow.

I tell myself that I have not lost it. I’m just stupid and if anything, all my weird behaviour is direct proof of what James said. So many times I felt like hell was swallowing me when he called me an ugly, retarded bitch but he was right, and I run to the kitchen to put back the knife into the drawer, I feel ashamed for all the years of my insolence with James.Who else would love a wretch like me? He’s right of course, nobody would.At least James pities me, even if he beats me.As he says, he beats me because he loves me, because he cares. It is hard work to make a human out of me and slamming the drawer with tears in my eyes and my mind sinking like a rotten swamp, I understand how ungrateful I’m to James, how I’ve caused his alcoholism and ruined his life.

But Melissa, I remind myself back at the sunroom, hiding the second knife under the pillow like a criminal, feeling utterly lost and baffled and guilty and…Abhorrent, absolutely and irrevocably abhorrent, as if I’m this monster that selfishly damages the world with its existence, destroys lives around it, as James says.

I scrub the floor, realizing I’m getting smacked today either way because this rug isn’t going to dry.And smacking you deserve Tracy for being a worse stain than the puke on the carpet, I reprimand myself. James should’ve married one of my sisters, Laura or Rachel.They were always better than me, no matter how hard I tried. He took a chance on me, out of absolute pity and now, where did that get him? And I dare complain about his drinking and call his discipline lessons - beatings?

James’s right, I’m the devil in his life. How more abominable can I get? The familiar sound of keys scratching at the door and failing to fit the keyhole impales me with dread. In a fraction of a second, I plunge into a feverish delirium; head spinning and thoughts hot like hell’s furnace. Cold sweat soaking me, I run up the stairs, trying not to make a sound but the carpeted wood is betraying me with high-pitched screeches.

‘What you do to the door, you whore?’ I hear the drunk voice from outside as he struggles to match the key with the keyhole.

Heart throbbing in my throat, I open Melissa’s bedroom, beam at her with a pain-distorted smile,‘You alright love?’

‘Is he going to do it again?’ she says, without emotion and my stomach sinks because my daughter’s eyes, once brilliant blue and shining with life, are dead.

I lock the door, knowing perfectly well it’s not going to hold. I turn to her, attempting to make my shaking voice confident, and failing, say,‘It’s going to end soon love.’

She stares at me for a second, piercing me with her troubled eyes that under the dim evening light look like clouded sapphires, then says,‘What do you mean end?’

What do you mean Tracy? I ask myself. Horrified at the sensation of metal sticking to my bare skin at the small of my back, where I tucked the knife.The room is zooming in and out of focus, I stand up so I don’t collapse, deciding that I won’t let James do that to Melissa and with this decision, I gasp, my breath sliced short by the razor clarity of my predicament; I will have to use the knife today.

Melissa is hugging me, weeping like only children can weep. I stroke her lush hair and tell her everything is going to be alright; a lie, but a necessary one for both of our sanities.

I hear footsteps on the stairs, hear incoherent mumbling; James is definitely pissed.

‘Fuckin’ locked me outta the gaf.’ James growled, his voice drenched in fury.

‘Tolerate you…Whore like you, who else would,’ he is slurring,‘and this how you repay yo…’

His voice’s cut short by the barrage of loud bangs, he is tumbling down the stairs.This has happened many times and my stomach squeezes into a fist because I know what comes next.

I hear him fuming,‘You retarded bitch!You do this to me?’

The knife is in my hand and I’m gripping the wooden handle so hard my muscle begins to cramp. I hear his swift footsteps as if through an enhanced but slower version of reality, hear anger in the thump of footsteps; he’s less drunk, way more vicious.

I know every detail of what will happen next because I’m so used to this that the vision of him battering me is stuck to me like a song I can never get out of my head.The song is roaring with violence; I know that he’ll smack lightly at first and when I start crying and resist, he’ll beat me harder. It’s a warm up and I don’t care for the physical pain because I’m already shaking for what comes next.

It’s his words that for some reason dig into me like the black talons of a hell-beast. He always cries when he says it; that I’m

Continued overleaf…

1. RAB VADER, Mixed Media, Anon, Mountjoy Prison

2. UNTITLED, Pen/Marker on Paper, Anon, Maghaberry Prison

unworthy to call myself a person. How I’m a burden that drags him and everyone around me down.That I’m ugly and he’d rather have sex with a homeless person. How he feels sickened to his stomach having a disgusting thing like me around and he does it only because no sane man would ever touch or look at me.

How I’m the devil in his life and as his words swell into a painful lump in my throat, I grab my head, wishing he’d beat it out of me, the defectiveness. I wish that he’d just let me die but he doesn’t because he says it’s his duty to give me life, and I’m the burden dragging his life down.

Then, I see, through the fog of my mind, how I open the door and his face is grimacing in fury. I don’t let him say anything but just stick him in the chest with the knife.The look of surprise twisting his face as he grabs the knife that is halfway in his chest is priceless. I feel evil, and also, redeemed.

He collapses on the floor and I’m not thinking about anything except Melissa. For the first time in my life, I can think this way about my beautiful daughter; I can think that she’s safe. It is such a relief to see James convulsing and spitting blood on the floor that I don’t care that I will spend the rest of my life in prison; Melissa is safe.

I snap back to reality as James’s bangs on the door intensify. I realize that I have the knife in one hand and the other one is gripping the lock, ready to twist it open. Feverish and with my head barking with a migraine, I decide that Melissa will not have James do that to her, I decide that from this very moment, she will be safe.As hot tears stream down my cheeks like rivers, I grip the knife harder and twist the lock...

Melissa’s hand squeezes mine by the wrist and with the eyes of a hurt child, she hands me the phone, and whispers,‘Please.’

Semi-delirious and quivering, I hear a woman’s voice from the phone’s speaker, ‘911, what’s your emergency?’

My glance darts between Melissa, the phone and the door where James’s banging is getting more savage by the second.

‘I hear the banging; do you need help?’ The woman repeats for what seems like the millionth time, her words consuming me like wildfire.

Help, I think and look at Melissa who can’t stop shaking and crying. Help, I decide, let Melissa take the knife from me. I bring the phone to my ear, clear my throat, and say,‘We need help, my drunk husband is trying to assault me and my daughter’. I pause witnessing the years of abuse and what he did to Melissa flash before my mind in a blink, then exhaling, I say,‘he is trying to assault us, again. Please send help, as fast as you can’.

Anon,Wheatfield Prison

The Interview

Short Story Intermediate

Ihadn’t taken a day off work in the last twenty-five years so I decided to take a proper day off. Things did not quite turn out as planned. At 7am that morning there was a pounding at the door. I looked out the window and counted six police vehicles in the street. So I decided I better answer as these guys seemed quite intense.

'Myles O’Brien, HMRC you are under arrest for evasion of taxes and conversion of criminal property, are there any drugs or weapons in the house?'

'Okay,' I said and asked him was he expecting drugs or weapons as I thought his was a very strange question.

The arresting officer said he didn’t really know but it was something he always said. He told me that he would have to put handcuffs on me and that I would be taken to a serious crime suite outside Belfast and that the house would have to be searched.

We made our way to the crime suite, driven by a police woman who didn’t seem to know the way and wasn’t familiar with the car. She didn’t seem to be able to get the gears, reverse was a definite no-go.There

were two HMRC officers in the car, the arresting officer and one of his colleagues. They had flown in especially from England so they didn’t have a clue either. So I gave directions from the back seat.

When we arrived at the crime suite the car had to be abandoned as there wasn’t enough of a turning circle so it would just have to be pushed out later. Myself and the two officers went to reception. I was told the interview would start in about an hour, and in the meantime an officer from the suite took me to a cell.

'Is this something to do with builders? He asked. 'No harm but you don’t look like a builder.'

'It’s HMRC, tax evasion or something like that,' I said.

He immediately responded, 'I hate those bastards.'

'Steady,' I said, 'they’re only doing a job.'

'No, they’re fucking crucifying me, they took nearly £800 out of my wages last month.'

I tried to calm him, he was getting quite distressed. I asked him to let me see his last payslip, if he got a chance at some point during the day. At the same time I tried to assure him that the system was computerised, and it’s not as if there was personal vendetta against him.

'Do you want some tea and biscuits?' he asked.

'That would be fantastic.'

The door opened and it was time for the interview. I was brought into a room, the two English guys were there with a solicitor for me. I had asked for one as it seemed to be a good idea, however, I intended to do most of the talking. But it would be useful to have one at hand.

I tried to get a sense of the two guys. One gave the impression of being university educated. He was the one asking most of the questions.As he was talking I imagined him walking on Scafell Pike with his girlfriend Jenny who was a graphic designer. The other I imagined as a Millwall supporter and had visions of him going for a few pints

1. UNTITLED, Chalk/Pastel on Paper, Anon, Hydebank Wood College & Women’s Prison

2. LANDSCAPE, Acrylics on Canvas, Anon, Portlaoise Prison

3. PORTAL TRIPTYCH, Mixed Media, Anon, Dochas Women’s Centre, Mountjoy Prison

and a kebab. Especially at one point in the interview when I explained that there was no real boss in our business.

'So all the decisions are made by a sixteen year old office girl,' he retorted.

I let him know that his comment was both sexist and ageist and that it had made me feel uncomfortable. He didn’t really say much after that.

The questions were all in a large ring binder so I made a point of calculating the thickness of the paper we had went through in, say, ten minutes and from that work out the length of the interview. I was concerned that we might overrun. Each time they

Each time they suggested that we should take a break I told them to keep going but to keep bringing tea if possible. I knew they would get tired before me, especially the kebab man.

suggested that we should take a break I told them to keep going but to keep bringing tea if possible. I knew they would get tired before me, especially the kebab man.

As it happens in these situations we all started to get on quite well and they became very obliging. I imagined us all sitting in some English tavern enjoying real ale while listening to Steel Eye Span, discussing the Luddites and Wilfred Owen. Maybe not the kebab man, however, who I imagined with Charlene, who would shout across the table, 'are you Irish or something like that?'

All ended as expected and we all exchanged our goodbyes.They had to get a flight home,

I assumed, or maybe they stayed on to make a night of it. I got a taxi to a restaurant where a good night was had, with much talk of ‘ilks’ of people and ways of thinking. In a few days there was another interview session, this was to be held in Belfast.When I arrived they had booked in a co-accused. We both shared the same solicitor so there was a bit of a toss-up about who should go first. I suggested that I could go to an adjacent coffee shop to read my book which I had taken with me and they could call me when I was ready.After a bit of drama, this was agreed to. I sat and read my book whille drinking my coffee. I confirmed to myself this was the best of all possible worlds. I experienced some self-doubt as I realised many had thought the same before.

My phone rang and it was now my time for the high-jump, so to speak.The firm had sent a different solicitor this time, who came across as more militant, giving off certain anti-establishment vibes.

'These people are amateurs, this case is a shambles,' he said, at the same time making punching actions with his fist, adding that these people would be in for a fight.

I was a bit sceptical about all this, thinking if he did all this fighting he would have blotted his copy book by now with the local coven of solicitors, barristers and judges and therefore would have no cases to fight. Hence he would probably find it hard to buy even a pair of shoes. Looking down at his feet his shoes seemed very new and shiny.

We now went in to meet the new set of interviewers, a local man and woman.We all stood waiting to go into the interview room, exchanging glances but no smiles or greetings.The man was called Patrick Murphy. He had a rather severe countenance and had pursed his lips in such a way that his face had the appearance of a

cone. I thought to myself he must relax his face muscles at some point, maybe when he gets home. I noticed he was wearing a Gold Fáinne, denoting that he was a fluent Irish Speaker.At one time in our history this might have given a sense of security or possible comradeship, however, at this point of transition, I could only think of black faces, white masks or the zeal of the convert.The woman equally had a stern face and I noticed she was wearing an armband ‘help for heroes,’ this was a charity which I believed raised funds for current British Army veterans.As we waited I imagined her in military fatigues saying inwardly, 'Left… right… left… right… left… right!'

The interview started and as expected it didn’t really have the same friendly atmosphere, and there was no tea offered. 'We now want to ask some questions about text messages on your mobile phone, we have had them transcribed.'

'Do you know the number of the phone?' I asked.

Continued overleaf…

'It’s your phone, the one we got from your house on the day of your arrest.'

'My phone was at home when I returned. There were a hundred and sixty missed calls and I later used it to call the restaurant. Do you know the number or type of phone? Do you still have it?'

'It’s your phone,' said cone face as he looked to the military woman.At the same time they both seemed to confer to consider what they should do next.

'We will just ask you questions on the text messages anyway!' said the military woman.

'I can hardly answer questions about a phone that nobody can ascertain the ownership,' I was starting to think that the solicitor was right, this really was a shambles.

The interview ended and we parted, however, it was not with the same friendly manner as with the English guys. I walked out with the solicitor who still maintained his militant stance. I believed that I had to express my opinion that I believed no way could this case be fought.

'Mark, let’s break it down.We set up our legal practice and on Monday someone comes in and we explain that we are going to fight his case to the death.An hour later another one arrives and we tell them the same.The process continues throughout the week. However, we only get a fixed fee for each client’s case so if we are true to our word for even the first client by the end of the week we won’t have money to pay the rent as we have spent all our time on this one alone.'

'No, 'Mark replied, 'we will not take on a case we can’t fight.'

'Okay Mark, let’s say we are bin men and we can easily empty a hundred bins a day. However our costs go up and we need to empty a hundred and fifty, and

then more people need bins emptied, and so on and forth.'

We agreed to disagree so I walked back to the car and I put on the radio. However a call comes through. It’s my son.

'Did you hear the news? They’ve bombed a hospital and residential areas, they’ve killed about two-thousand people.'

'Putin doesn’t seem to care. He doesn’t care what the West thinks,' I replied.

'It’s not Ukraine it’s Gaza.The US-Israeli coalition have been bombing continually, it’s mainly women and children.All the politicians are supporting it but the people are coming onto the street. There’s a march at 7pm.'

Forgetting about all the events of the last few days I told him, 'I will see you there. Bring the biggest Palestinian flag you can find!'

The phone call ends and Mad Villain emerges from the speakers:

They pray four times a day, they pray five Whose way is strange when it’s time to survive

Some will go of their own free will to die

Others take them with you when they blow sky high

What’s the difference? All you get is lost children

While the bosses sit up behind the desks it cost billions

To blast humans in half, into caps and arms

Only one side is allowed to have bombs

It’s like making a soldier drop his weapon

Shooting him, and telling him to get to steppin’

Obviously they came to portion up his fortune

Sounds to me like that old robbery extortion

They say

Same game

Strange ways

You can’t reform ‘em

Next day my phone was on fire.A steady stream of solicitors and barristers were ringing non-stop.

'Try and get me on that case, apparently it’s lottery money. I’ll keep you on a few quid.'

I was to meet the solicitor at the court and as I arrived in the building the prosecutor is talking to my solicitor.

'That’s some case you’re getting, fortythousand pages and double the money per page, not that you’ll be reading any of them. Don’t forget to put me on your Christmas list.'

Sounded to me like that old robbery extortion.You can’t reform ‘em.

Anon, Magilligan Prison

Chasing Cars

Short Story, Getting Started

February 5th,1pm the day my mask slipped. Six months previously a judge and jury had decided my fate, four years incarceration for assault.As I descended the steps to the holding cell, I kept my feelings in check but my mind was racing.The thirty minutes in that dungeon caused me to consider was this a pre-cursor to what was ahead? Thoughts reverberated in my head, what would it be like? how would I survive? Would Sandra stand by me? As my head began to melt with the constant pressure of questioning, I reconciled to be resilient. I owed it to Sandra to survive this ordeal.The journey to Limerick helped me to steel myself, to harden my heart, to convince myself that I was a hard man not to be toyed with.

Surprisingly the next six months passed by largely uneventfully, my six-foot two stature kept the menacing bullies at arm’s length and my cellmate was tolerable, just. My days were spent in the school pretending to the other inmates that I was semi-literate, needless to say I did not confess to a master’s in Business and Finance and a senior management position in Bank of Ireland. Such minor details might have drawn unwanted attention and dented the hard man persona.

While the days passed quicker than expected there were periods of utter desperation. Sandra’s first visit was an event I longed for.After my marriage had dissolved, I was haunted by the shame of marital break down but more importantly by the criminal proceedings which were to follow. I was lucky to have kept up my tennis for both my physical and mental salvation. I was lucky to have been paired with Sandra in a mixed doubles tournament one evening. She was also separated and was trying to adjust to the new found realities of life on your own.

He nods in support and I get the strong impression he wants me to elaborate.

So, in the confines

of a tiny prison cell, I tell a person I really don’t know the story of my life.

Mixed doubles led to concerts, days at the races, rugby matches and intimate nights together. I gave her an opt out clause but she pledged to spend the rest of her life with me. Despite this sorry mess I had found a soulmate who would love me forever. I told her not to visit me for a few weeks, to give me time to acclimatise to my new surroundings. But after a few days I rang her to ask her to book a visit. On the day of the visit the anticipation reached Everest proportions, I yearned to touch her, to smell her perfume, to see her body and to hug her tightly.All of these eventualities played out as I expected. But as the clock ticked the despondency set in,‘finish up please’ was the cue to say goodbye.Then the floodgates opened, Sandra sobbed violently while I clung on to her body until the female officer gently pleaded with Sandra to leave.The journey back to the cell was the loneliest journey of my life. I focused my eyes on the floor in a desperate bid to hide my tearstained face. On reaching my cell I climbed the stairs to the top deck of the bunk bed, turned my head to the wall and cried quietly to myself.

Daily interaction with my cellmate consisted of the following literary discourse ‘yeah’,’ ok’,‘you go first’ ‘I’m definitely watching that’ and ‘you keep out of my business and I’ll keep out of yours.’ Sometimes in moments of introspection I thought of how I could have ended up living with someone from inner city Dublin who had as much empathy and charisma as a stone wall. On the outside I would have little or no engagement with somebody like him, yet here I am eating, showering, defecating alongside him.

Then cue 1pm, 5 February.‘There’s nothing on that tv’ my cellmate announced in his typical gruff voice,‘try the radio stations’, I replied in similar fashion. Channel 210, 214, 218,‘we are counting down the top 100 greatest love songs of all time’ the D.J. announced in her sexy voice.‘Leave that there ‘I say,‘ok no need to roar’ he replies. I ignore him in customary fashion and listen as song no. 74 is played.‘If you just lie here’ grabs me and my eyes well up, choosing my usual coping mechanism I turn my face to the wall.‘Lay with me and just forget the world’ breaks my defences and the floodgates open.This time facing the wall makes no difference, my hard man image is in tatters. I can’t look at my cellmate. I just hope he is asleep or dead but no such luck.Then the fifth miracle of Fatima occurs and he turns to me and in a genuinely concerning manner asks ‘are you ok.’ Through audible sobs I blubber ‘it’s just that song,’ Chasing Cars, it brings back

memories.’ He nods in support and I get the strong impression he wants me to elaborate. So, in the confines of a tiny prison cell, I tell a person I really don’t know the story of my life.

‘I was married for over thirty years, had two children, worked hard to provide for my wife and children. I thought we were happily married but behind my back she was having an affair with a former colleague of mine.’ I could sense my voice crackling a little as I continued,‘I came home one evening and they were at it in the sitting room. My son was with me but I couldn’t stop myself. I beat the living daylights out of your man and I threw her and her stuff out of the house. My young fella was screaming at me to stop but I couldn’t. I paused in an effort to regain some degree of composure; this allowed my cellmate to tell me that he would have done exactly the same only that he probably wouldn’t have spared your man’s life. ‘No, no, I was in the wrong, I destroyed the family, my kids don’t talk to me because your man was badly injured. My daughter told me before I came in that she would never speak to me again.When you’re in your 60s these things hit home. For the first time since I started my monologue, I noticed my hands were covered in perspiration.’

My son said under cross-examination that I used excessive force against the tramp who was having it off with my wife. It’s awful when one of your own daubs you in.That really hurt me as that put the nail in my coffin.

As I glanced across at my cellmate, I noticed his head bowed.‘My fucking temper got the better of me.While I hate her for what she did I remember that song, Chasing Cars was our song and when I hear it, it just brings me back to a time when I had no problems.

So now you know why I have been such a dick, you’re about the same age as my young fella and I should have been much friendlier to you. I’m sorry.’ With that I put out my hand and he shook my hand with strength both of us aware that there was support in that strength. The door opened and we became aware for the first time of our surroundings. We slowly raised our bodies out of the chairs and ambled up to the servery. It was the first time in six months that we stood together in the queue and chatted away to each other.

When we got back to the cell we continued to listen to the music while eating our tea. Number 25,“I will always love you” by Whitney Houston.

‘That was my ma’s favourite song, the one she sang to me throughout my childhood.’ ‘It’s a brilliant song’ I replied, ‘Whitney died so young, it was tragic ‘, I said.‘It wasn’t the only tragic death; my mother is dead too.’ ‘Ah no, Paul, I am so sorry to hear that, was it sudden?’ I responded.‘Very,’ he replied in a sombre manner.Then he stared at the wall, paused and began his story.

‘I was an only child, me ma had me when she was sixteen.’ Her auld pair disowned her when she got up the duff and sent her to one of them homes run by the nuns. She never really talked about her life there. Me ma refused to give me up and she got a flat in Ballymun and that’s where we grew up. He paused and I noticed his hands nervously pushing his cup around the worktop.

‘Growing up I got everything I wanted from Nike trainers to the latest games. The other kids were jealous of me because I had everything. I loved me ma but I fucked it up.’ With that he paused, gulped down a cup of Mi Wadi orange and as he was putting down the bottle our eyes met.

I noticed the tears in his eyes as he had noticed mine previously, I nodded to him saying ‘we are a right pair of babies.’ He laughed and recommenced his story.

Continued overleaf…

2. UNDERDOG RILEY, Acrylics, Anon, Mountjoy Prison 2

1. HONEST POLLUTION, Acrylic on Canvas, Anon, Maghaberry Prison

‘I ruined it all, I began messing around. I started by taking hash and mitching from school. Of course, that wasn’t good enough I had to try coke and then the brown.As I graduated to the harder stuff I also graduated to a life of crime.They’re the only things I fucking graduated to because I left school before the Junior Cert. Me ma pleaded with me to get off the drugs, to turn away from crime but I knew it all.The things I did to get drugs were brutal, robbing, beatings, muggings, looting, arson. I did them all but the worst was killing me ma.’

His words reverberated around the room and I thought to myself this lad is dangerous, he’s a murderer. Noticing the colour draining from my face he moved quickly to explain.’ I didn’t kill her physically but the mental strain of having the cops calling to the house took its toll. If I wasn’t so selfish, I could have saved her.The final straw for her had to be when I was arrested for mugging an auld fella and thrashing him to within an inch of his life. I got eight years but I really got a life sentence because I hate myself for what I did to that man.’ Once again, the strain of his story was taking its toll and at this stage I feared for his mental health, he held his head in his hands as the pain seemed to envelop him. Instinctively I gently rubbed his back and whispered to him ‘it’s ok ‘. Words which I knew were totally inadequate in this situation.

‘I cannot get the thought of my ma out of my head’, he sobbed.‘I loved her so much, she was my life, my support, my everything but I failed her when she needed me most. She got a massive heart attack and while I was shooting heroin into my veins she lay dying on the floor. I know she was fighting to save her life as I was trying to end mine. I will never get the sight of her limp

body lying on the floor, helpless and dead, out of my head. I abandoned her when she needed me most.’ My heart was breaking for him but before I had a chance to intercede, he was off again. ‘When I was younger, she always said to me when we were listening to music that she wanted Whitney’s “I will always love you” to be played at her funeral. I was in such a stupor from coke at the funeral that I didn’t even arrange the music for the funeral. I failed her in life and I even managed to fail her in death.’ With that he stopped, physically and emotionally exhausted, drained of every drop of energy, tears flowing from his pitiful eyes. He cumbersomely extricated himself from his chair and went to the bathroom for what seemed like an eternity. Head bowed Paul made his way to his chair but I stepped forward to halt his journey. Moving towards him I hugged him tightly and whispered into his ears the words,‘your mother loves you, ask her for help and she will be your guardian angel.’ His response was immediate and not what I expected but it certainly changed both our lives forever.

Anon, Midlands Prison

Nelly

Poetry, Getting Started

Nelly

He is The King of Queens

He is broken up cars

Paint on the brush

Wall and handle

When in a rush

Splats on the floor

He is a man of words spoken

He is a man of words unsaid

Nelly

Anon, Magilligan Prison

1. SELF PORTRAIT, Acrylic on Canvas, Anon, Maghaberry Prison

2. SEATED FIGURE, Charcoal Drawing, Anon,Wheatfield Prison

3. DISC, Pyrography and Acrylics on Plywood, Anon, from an Artists in Prisons Workshop with Typographer Mark Smith, Mountjoy Prison

4. MATCHBOX FRIENDS, Soap

Carving, Anon, Cloverhill Remand Prison

5. UNTITLED, Pencil on Paper, Anon, Magilligan Prison

ON THE RECORD

Poetry Advanced

In basements, car boots, back rooms we neglect The world outside while flipping through the racks, We can’t deny the impulse to collect.

Our ears begin to breathe as we inspect The country, bluegrass, blues and other acts, Where basements, car boots, back rooms intersect

And locked, concentric, dusty grooves are checked For surface noise, for static, pops and cracks, We listen to the impulse to collect.

From mint to good to poor to clearly wrecked, On vinyl, flexis, acetates, shellacs, In basements, car boots, back rooms where we trekked

We congregating pilgrims of the sect: The traders, hoarders, twitchers, anoraks, Who tolerate the impulse to collect

In hidden places, gathered to reflect And rage against the waning of the wax, In basements, car boots, back rooms circumspect, We suffer from the impulse to collect.

Anon, Midlands Prison

Anon, Midlands Prison 4 3 5

To Grace, Amidst Our Parting Sighs

Poetry Intermediate

Farewell, my Grace, as Ireland's skies grow dim, Our parting hour strikes, yet love does not wane. In shadows cast by fate's most cruel whim, Our souls entwined, in heartache and in pain.

Your ring, a symbol of our love's pure flame, Adorns your hand, while I must face the dawn. Though separate paths we walk, my claim the same: To love, to cherish, till my breath is drawn.

Though death's cold hand may seek to tear apart, Our vows of love will echo through the age. In every beat of my unwavering heart, Your presence felt, my comfort and my sage.

So, fear not, dearest, for our love's sweet song Shall conquer death, in memory live long.

Exhibitions Searching in the Dark

Eddie Cahill started painting in Portlaoise Prison in the 1990s at the age of forty. He also spent time in Limerick Prison, and his exhibition at Limerick City Gallery in February had a special significance for him as he felt his progress from the city’s jail to its art gallery was symbolic of his life’s journey. Eddie chose ‘Searching in the Dark’ as the title of his exhibition and he uses symbolic imagery and emotionally charged colour to explore the psychological impact of trauma, in his distinctive and dark style of painting. He draws on characters from Shakespearean tragedies to illustrate the violence of gangland feuds. He incorporates imagery from The Handmaid’sTale to represent repression, and fragments of classical sculptures provide inspiration for his ‘Broken Heads’ series.Visitors identified with Eddie’s series of paintings documenting the fear and isolation felt during the Covid lockdown and the exhibition was very successful, for Eddie and for LCGA.

Tom Shortt, Arts Officer, Irish Prison Education Service

1 2 3

The following pages showcase a number of exhibitions showcasing the amazing art created by people in prisons and other secure settings.

Giving Something Back

As this issue of All In was going to print, a pop-up exhibition of art and craftwork by people-in-custody titledGiving Something Back,was in the library for two days at Thomond Community College (TCC) in Limerick. Classes of students visited the exhibition to discuss the work, and a total of 150 students interacted with the exhibition. One student aged seventeen opened a conversation about theJust Do Itpiece (P.10). She pointing out that the irreverent use of a religious image could cause offence and controversy.That discussion ended with the group agreeing it was good when art provoked debate. Another student wrote in a comment how she liked a painting of a prison yard and one showing landings and cells (P.11) “because it says a lot about the environment they are in.” She added that “the value for people-incustody of making art is it reduces stress, builds self-esteem and connects people in different ways.”

In a piece he wrote afterwards Anthony McAuley, a teacher at TCC, explained how he stayed during his free classes “just to bask in the wonder of people being creative.” He said:

“The outreach exhibition connected with us very much and had a profound effect on the young students.The work challenged us to reflect on concepts of free space, family connection, community and intimacy in a way that was very raw but incredibly insightful. It was really inspiring to see the incredible art of inmates, objects of lasting value and serious emotional impact. I'd like to thank the inmates for giving us the privilege of experiencing their art first hand.”

These reactions to Giving Something Back confirm the special value of the artwork of people-in-custody as a resource in education. Also, that artists learn when they exhibit their work.The following week the exhibition went on to Oberstown Childrens’ Detention Centre and an account will be given in the next issue of All In

Tom Shortt, Arts Officer, Irish Prison Education Service

1. EDDIE CAHILL WITH HIS PANDEMIC SERIES OF WORKS ON PAPER DURING

SEARCHING IN THE DARK, HIS ONE-MAN EXHIBITION OF PAINTINGS, AT LIMERICK CITY GALLERY OF ART, APRIL 2024, photography, Tom Shortt

2. ENTOMBED, Acrylic on Fabriano Paper, Eddie Cahill

3. OUT DAMNED SPOT, Acrylic on Fabriano Paper, Eddie Cahill

4. SHOULDER BAG, leather, Anon, Midlands Prison

5. BLUE VASE, Ceramics, Anon, Limerick Prison

6. HELMET, Copper & Brass, Anon, Midlands Prison

8. HORSES, Acrylics on Board, Anon, Wheatfield Prison 4 5 7 8 6

7. LANDSCAPE, Acrylics on Paper, Anon, Portlaoise Prison

Alternative Ways Seeing:of Introduction to Artwork

Alternative Ways of Seeing at Rua Red the South Dublin Arts Centre in Tallaght from 20 March to 27 April 2024 was the first national exhibition of the art and craftwork of prisoners organised since the pandemic in the Republic.The exhibition featured work made by men and women detained in fourteen prisons and by former prisoners attending three post release centres around the country.Artist and former prisoner Eddie Cahill was invited to visit prisons to select the exhibition. Eddie is an advocate for prison education, and he put his heart and soul into the selection process. He devised the title Alternative Ways of Seeing for the exhibition and prisoners showed him a lot of respect when he visited art classes in ten prisons.They appreciated what he has achieved and what he had to say, and as a result it became an

exhibition that belonged to prisoners because of Eddie’s input and presence. Visitors found the work both moving and meaningful. Detailed abstract compositions in pen and ink by a man in Magilligan Prison were included to reflect the close links with Prison Arts Foundation, promoting the arts in prisons in Northern Ireland, reflecting how the common language of art crosses borders and boundaries. The exhibition ended but the legacy of Alternative Ways of Seeing lives on.

Tom Shortt (Arts Officer, Irish Prison Education Service)

9. PATCHWORK QUILT, Anon, Loughan House Open Prison. 3 2 1

1. TERRIERS, Ceramic Sculpture, Anon, Limerick Prison

2. CERAMIC SCULPTURE ON THE THEME OF THE SEA, Anon, from DECADE, the Cork Prison Summer Exhibition at Spike Island Heritge Centre in 2024

3. TERRARIUM, Architectural Glasswork, Anon, Midlands Prison

4. DELIVER US FROM EVIL, Acrylics, Anon,Wheatfield Prison

5. RAINFOREST, Oil on Canvas, Anon, Mountjoy Prison

6. COVERED WAGON AND SPANISH GALLEON, Matchstick Craft, Anon,Wheatfield Prison

7. PORTRAIT, Acrylics on Paper, Anon Midlands Prison

8. CHRIST THE REDEEMER, Acrylics, Anon, Mountjoy Prison

Reflections Exhibition

Each year through our programmes PAF provides various platforms for our participants to communicate their views, feelings and experiences to others who would not normally hear them (whether in the criminal justice systems itself or more widely in society through public exhibition) with the aim of changing the discourse about prisoners and more generally people who have received criminal convictions.This year’s title for the annual showcase was shaped by our writing group in Magilligan prison, who in parallel to the exhibition launched a collection of their poems and narratives.The in-house guest editor said “the theme ‘reflection’ set the groundwork for interpretation, acting as a catalyst, and precipitating the deep feelings brought to the surface that are shared openly with the reader. I hope these writers’ thoughts will resonate with others in some way and show the reader we all have memories that deserve reflection.” The location again this year was 2 Royal Avenue, a free creative space in the heart of Belfast city centre, an accessible and inclusive building designed to create a sense of calm and provide for people of all ages and abilities. Reflections ran from 7 March to 2 April 2024 and was seen by over 22,000 visitors, 90% of audience feedback rated the exhibition 5/5, they ‘Loved it!’.The selected works utilised forms of art, music, and writing and while the names of the individual artists weren’t identified, to protect their identities, the pieces were strikingly individual, conveying the live experiences and multifaceted emotions of life in prison and secure settings.

Adele Campbell (Arts Coordinator, Prison Arts Foundation)

1. ASSORTMENT OF ART FROM ‘REFLECTIONS’ EXHIBITON

2. INSIGHT, Sculpture, Anon, Maghaberry Prison

3. HONEST POLLUTION, Acrylic on Canvas, Anon, Maghaberry Prison

4. HONEST POLLUTION, Acrylic on Canvas, Anon, Maghaberry Prison

5. , BUST, Sculpture, Anon, Hydebank Wood College and Women’s Prison

6. UNTITLED, Acrylic on Canvas, Anon, Magilligan Prison

7. LOVE CONQUERS ALL, Ceramic, Anon, Maghaberry Prison

8. THE WILD ROVER, Woodcraft, Anon, Maghaberry Prison 1 2